


left the window open so i could call out your name

by bravestyles



Series: we were outnumbered. . . this time [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Cutting, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Suicide Attempt, Recreational Drug Use, Reunions, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, minor descriptions of abuse, side haylor, side lirry, side narry, toxic friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 62,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: Two years later, Harry and Louis run into each other again. Somehow, Harry ends up spending Christmas with Louis' family back home.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: we were outnumbered. . . this time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782544
Comments: 20
Kudos: 99
Collections: Ohno2020





	left the window open so i could call out your name

**Author's Note:**

> if i missed any tags that you think need to be included, let me know!  
> 

-

It's only fitting that they bump into each other again at the hospital, two years later. 

Harry does stupid things and hangs out with stupid people, and Louis works near constantly. Their paths were bound to cross here eventually, and even though seeing Louis -- eyes still blue, beard a bit longer, hair a little shorter, a little more weight added to his frame -- sends a rush of anxiety down his spine, he's also not that surprised. 

Once Louis sees him, Harry doesn't do anything immature like try to scamper off without saying hi. He doesn't go over to him, but he does give him a brief smile before putting his head down and walking over to the vending machine near the front of the hospital. It's three in the morning, so there's nobody near and Harry doesn't have to wait. 

Louis follows, his footsteps quick behind Harry's slow ones, and as Harry puts his quarters in the machine, he glances at Louis. He looks worried. Harry doesn't miss that look. 

"Are you ill, or something?" Louis asks, his eyebrows coming together in concern. "I can rush a room for you, if -- "

"I'm not here for me," Harry interrupts before Louis can get too worked up over him. 

Louis frowns. "Who, then?"

And Harry shouldn't tell him, he really shouldn't, but now that Louis knows he's at the hospital, he's probably going to make sure he looks after him while he's here, and Harry doesn't want to get caught in a lie. He shouldn't have to lie to Louis, anyway. Who he's here with shouldn't be of concern to Louis. 

"Oli," he says, and despite himself, he looks down at the machine to avoid seeing the look of disappointment and punches the number for Doritos. He watches them fall, and he bends down to grab them out of the bottom. When they're in his hands and he doesn't have anything else to do, he chances a look at Louis. 

He looks so pissed that it makes Harry exhale shakily. 

"I talked to Nick not too long ago," Louis tells him, and his jaw is clenched. "He said you were doing loads better."

That's a stretch; Harry's doing. . . better, sure. In some areas. In others, he's still struggling terribly, and there’s a few he's still completely failing at. But he's pretty sure he's reached a point in his life where you could call him 'better'. Better than before. Better than how he was when Louis was living with him. 

"Oli's my friend, Louis," Harry says quietly, almost embarrassed. He should be, honestly. He's made a few other friends in the last two years, and here he is, still clinging to Oli. 

"Oli's the reason you started cutting yourself," Louis spits, and immediately and involuntarily, Harry takes a step back. "Nick and I talk occasionally, and when he told me that -- "

"It was nice seeing you again, Lou," Harry says sternly, "but I've got to get back with Oli, so." He steps around Louis and heads back towards the way he came. 

Louis calls out his name softly, and even though Harry doesn't want to talk to him, he slows his pace. He doesn't stop walking, though, because he's got to establish some sort of boundary with Louis about talking so openly about his self-harming. That's not something Harry opened up to him about for it to be thrown back in his face. 

Louis exhales quietly as he catches up to Harry and starts walking in stride with him. "I'm sorry. That's not what I wanted to say to you after so long. It's just. . . Oli does my head in like nothing else does."

And, well. Ditto. "It's alright. Not a big deal."

"I mean. . . am I allowed to ask, though? How are you?" He shrugs and looks at Harry a little desperately. "How have you been?"

Fine, Harry doesn't say, because even if it's the truth for most days, he knows that isn't what Louis' asking about. He stares forward at the hall ahead of them as he clears his throat to answer. "I stopped doing hard drugs, like. After Brighton." He shrugs a little and sniffs, wipes at his nose. "I mostly stick to weed and, like. Whatever Nick gives me when I'm too anxious and it's getting on his nerves." He glances at Louis, who is watching their moving feet with an unreadable expression on his face. "I live with him now, but. If you've talked to him, you probably know that."

Harry didn't actually think he was going to take Nick up on that offer, but eventually, after too many nights of feeling achingly alone, he caved. When Nick helped him move in, Harry hadn't talked to Oli in months, and that's probably why Harry was feeling so lonely. He's been living with Nick a little over a year and a half now, and he can honestly say it's probably the best thing he's ever decided to aside from moving out after he graduated. 

There’s a lot of pressure taken off of him at Nick’s house. Financially, there’s been a huge burden lifted off of him, but it’s more than that. He feels less trapped at Nick’s. More free. He doesn’t really understand it himself. 

Louis nods. "Yeah. He mentioned that to me. Made sure to mention, like, eight times that he wasn't making you pay rent."

Harry snorts. He's not surprised. He is a bit guilty, though, because no one should get to live in a house like that for free. He gets free groceries and free weed and free everything else that he could possibly need. Nick's rich, yeah, but he still can't help and feel like he's mooching off of him a little too much sometimes. 

"And. . ." Louis clears his throat and pockets his hands in his scrub shirt. "I don't mean to make the same mistake twice, but how have you been with. . . you know."

Harry does know, and he wishes he could pretend like he didn't or at the very least be able to tell Louis that he's clean, that he hasn't cut in years, and laugh at how strange hurting himself seems now, but -- well. Better in some areas, still failing horribly at others. This is one of those areas. 

"I. . ." He laughs shortly and shakes his head at himself. He wouldn't have to be so ashamed of it if he just stopped. "Not terrible. I mean, not as bad as before, but, like. Not great, either. And Nick doesn't know I started up again, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him, because he -- he gets mean about it."

He’s absolutely terrified for the day that Nick somehow finds out about it. 

Harry doesn't look up at Louis, but he can hear the clear disappointment in his voice when he asks, "How long were you clean for before you started again?"

Harry digs his teeth into his bottom lip before releasing it. "A year, just about. Eleven months. I've, um. I've been doing it again for about nine months." And usually he can stop himself by now, and he hasn't been able to this time around, but he's not terribly worked up about it because he's only doing it twice a week about, and that's a lot better than doing it every day.

"And what made you go back to it, if you don't mind me asking?"

Harry doesn't answer, and it's not because he's angry at Louis for asking, but because they both already know the answer.

It wasn't like last time, though. Oli didn't directly pressure him into it, he just. . . got comfortable with the fact that he had someone to be intimate with that didn't mind seeing the cuts. Shame and guilt are the only two things that make him stop, and Oli doesn't shame him for it, and he doesn't make him feel guilty for it. And he doesn’t worry about them, either. 

Harry's confident in saying that he would've stayed clean if it wasn't for him starting back up with Oli again, but Oli didn't encourage him to do it this time. He was satisfied when he saw fresh cuts, though, which. . . He knows Oli is fucked up, so he tries not to think about it.

"I guess I just don't see what you gain from being around him," Louis says tersely, like he doesn't want to say it but he can't help himself. 

"I don’t know,” Harry says. “He's my friend. It's hard just to stop talking to him."

He knows what he accidentally implied before he's even done saying it, and once he does, he bites back down on his lip and glances at Louis, who looks hurt and angry. "But it's not hard to completely blow me off?” Louis snaps. “Seriously?"

"I don't feel bad for hurting him," Harry says softly, and he stops walking. Louis does, too. "I don't, so it's easy to go back to him. You're. . . you're different, Lou. You always have been."

"If you ever called, you know I would have -- "

"I know," Harry agrees quietly, nodding his head. "I know you would."

Louis opens his mouth to say something else, and before he can, someone in scrubs taps Louis on the shoulder and says a Dr. Rochelle needs him. Harry wants to ask what he's needed for, ask what he does here exactly, but he lets the words die in his throat. They feel pointless. 

"It's fine," Harry tells Louis, because he looks guilty. "I have to see Oli, anyway."

Louis tears his gaze away from Harry for a second, looking distracted, before saying, "Yeah, what is he in for again?"

Harry licks his lips and glances down. He struggles with figuring out how to word it, but since Louis is needed, he decides to just say it, even if it comes out imperfect. "An overdose," he says quietly, and Louis scoffs, shaking his head. Before he can say anything, Harry shakes his head. "It was on purpose, Lou."

And Harry was the one to find his body laying unresponsive in his flat, and Harry was the one to call the police. The cops were getting annoyed with the way Harry kept stuttering, something Harry apologized for about a hundred times. 

Louis' annoyance turns to shock, then, and he almost looks a little sympathetic, which Harry thought could never happen. "I'm sorry," he says, "and I want to talk to you more before you leave -- and please don't skip out on me -- but I have to go, so just, like." He gives him a stern look. "Don't do what he tried to do. Ever."

Harry remembers all those years ago; the bridge and the desperation and how angry and scared Louis was with him. The memory slashes through his brain like a whip, because he hates that he did that. Or thought about doing that. He's not the best of friends with life, but he doesn't even want to be an acquaintance of death. 

Louis gives him a brief hug before speed-walking down the hall, and Harry heads to Oli's room. 

Oli is frustrated and beyond irritated. He wants to go home, and they aren't letting him yet. Harry's not sure they're going to keep him much longer since he's treating the staff like shit. Harry doesn't intervene, he just sits their quietly playing a game on his phone because Oli told him to shut the fuck up once already and he's not keen on hearing it again. 

He has work in the morning, which he's probably not going to. He can call off, it won't be a problem; his boss Anna likes him, and he's only called off a few times before. He's been working at the floral shop for about two and a half years now, and it's nice. The pace is something that doesn't overwhelm him, unless it's the spring time or close to a holiday. His coworkers are mostly teens trying to scrape together some cash, not the middle aged adults he used to work with at the record shop. And the customers are usually in a good mood; Harry has grown to appreciate the way the customers will tell him all about the loved one they're buying flowers for, even though he didn't ask. 

He's in the middle of a level in his game when Louis texts him that he's taking his lunch break in five minutes, and to text him Oli's room number so he can find him. Harry does, because even though talking to Louis might be awkward, he'd rather awkwardness over Oli's hostility. 

"I'm going to step outside for a little while," Harry tells Oli, standing. He ignores Oli's offended scoff and leaves, and while he waits for Louis to come find him, he texts Nick back, answering his text of, _that jackass can't even kill himself right_ with a frowning face. 

Nick hasn't changed all that much, although he's much softer in the way he treats Harry. He can still be a dick, and he hurts Harry’s feelings more than he probably means to, but it’s. . . Harry’s less fragile now. It hurts less. 

"Hey," a voice says, and Harry glances over to see Louis standing there, a small smile on his face. "Want to grab a coffee?"

Harry shrugs and tucks his phone away in his pocket. "Sure."

Louis guides him to the employee lounge, and as Louis pours them both a cup of coffee, Harry sits on the sofa and stares at the TV that's playing the news even though there's nobody in here watching it. 

"So," Louis starts, coming to sit next to him. He hands him his coffee, and Harry takes it, thanking him quietly. "Have you talked to Gemma recently?"

Harry shakes his head. He hasn't talked to her at all, but he did call his mum a few months ago, and he knows that his sister is pregnant. She's probably five or six months now, about. "I know she's pregnant, though. I'm happy for her. She knows I am."

"Does she?"

Harry shrugs. "Don't know. Don't care. I know you think I'm awful for not talking to her, but I'm okay with what I've done."

"I don't think you're awful," Louis disagrees quietly. "I just think you're punishing the wrong person."

Harry shrugs again. He doesn't care. Of course, sometimes he misses his sister, and sometimes he feels terrible for keeping her out of his life, and then he remembers all the times their dad became that much more violent with him after she moved out, and he doesn't care again. He knows she had to get out, just like he did a few years after, but he can't forgive her for it. He can't. 

"The baby's dad is lovely,” Louis tells him. “His name is Steven. I met him a few months ago, when I went back to Holmes Chapel for my sister's birthday."

"That's good," Harry says lamely. He doesn't know what else to say. 

Louis nods and takes a sip of his coffee. It must be too hot, because he grimaces and pulls back. "Is Oli alright, then?"

"He's fine. They'll let him out around mid-day, they said."

"I suppose that's good." He sounds annoyed, and Harry's sure that he's going to get the same attitude from Nick, so he tries not to get mad about it now in an attempt to save his energy for later. 

"Look," Louis says, and based on how serious his tone is, Harry knows he's probably not going to like what comes next. He braces himself and looks down at his hands, hoping to shield himself from what's to come. "I went over to the psychiatric wing, and I grabbed a few pamphlets that might help you." He sighs a little as he grabs the pamphlets out of his back packet and hands them to Harry. The one on top is about self-harm, and Harry lets out a nervous laugh as he accepts them. "I don't know how useful they'll actually be, but, like. I think they're a good start."

Harry just nods and puts them in his coat pocket. He'll look at them later. Actually look at them, because he's not going to pretend like he has it under control anymore. 

"You're not mad, are you?" Louis asks, and he sounds like he thinks the answer is going to be yes.

"No," Harry replies honestly, shaking his head. "I think you're a bit mad to still be trying to help me after all this time, but no, I'm not angry."

There’s a small beat of silence, and then Louis says, "You've matured a shit ton since I've talked to you last."

Harry smiles sadly and shakes his head. He hasn't, not really. Not doing drugs so often has actually done him good, along with not drinking as much. It’s done a lot for his anxiety, which seems backwards to him. Getting shitfaced made him feel less anxious in the moment. He has a job again, which forces himself to get up every morning and do something with his life. Gives him a reason to think he’s worth something. And he's made some friends, Niall and Liam and Taylor, and they help distract him. That's all he's done, really; find ways to distract himself. He's not actually gotten through anything, he's just learned to ignore it a little bit better. 

"And I don't mean to keep harping on the same thing, but if you ever wanted me to recommend you a therapist, or take you to an appointment so you won't have to be alone, like," Louis gives an encouraging smile, "don't hesitate to ask me. I really think it'd do you good to see someone. Just to talk to. You don't even have to talk about all the big stuff if you don't want to, like your dad or your self-harm or any of that. I think. . . I think you have a hard time talking to people without feeling stupid or like you're being judged, and I think doing it in a situation where you aren't doing it with someone you're not scared to disappoint would be good for you."

That's not exactly true. When Harry went to his university clinic all those years ago, he didn't feel any less stupid or judged than he did with anybody else. Maybe now things would be different, though. Maybe he should stop avoiding it and try it. He's almost positive that getting on some sort of medication would help him, so he's not sure why he hasn't gone yet, aside from the fact that it makes him incredibly anxious to even think about going. 

"You sound like you've thought about it a lot," is all Harry says. It's not a yes, but it's not a no.

"I have," Louis agrees. "I regret not saying it when I lived with you, and I've regretted it since I moved out. I was scared to overstep, and I kept telling myself you'd figure it out on your own, but. . ." he trails off, and it makes Harry laugh sadly. 

"I still haven't figured it out," Harry fills in, and Louis looks like he feels bad, so Harry shakes his head. "It's fine. It's true, so."

"But you've come a long way. Seriously, Harry. I'm beyond proud of you."

And no, that can't be, because Harry is still friends with Oli and he still cuts himself and he still hasn't done anything useful with his life. He's ignoring his pregnant sister. His brain still decides to self-destruct sometimes. He's not someone anyone should be proud of.

But Louis sounds like he really, truly means it. And that makes Harry emotional for too many reasons. 

He leans forward for a hug, and Louis meets him halfway. They hold each other properly, even though it's a little awkward considering they're both holding their coffees. Regardless, it makes him feel cared for.

Later on, after Oli's been discharged, Harry promises himself that he'll reach out to Louis in a few days to try and properly mend their friendship. He feels good about it, too, so he's not sure why he doesn't. 

-

A month later he does. It's late, and it's because he wants something, but he does, so it still counts. 

He's laying in his bed, in one of Nick's guest rooms, on December fifteenth and he's not prepared to spend the holidays by himself for the millionth year in a row. Holidays were never, ever something to look forward to growing up; all it did was create more stress in their household, which led to his dad getting angry, which led to Harry sporting bruises on Christmas. He usually went to Louis' on Christmas, and he misses that. So much. He thinks about it every year, how much he misses it. And this year, he decides, he's going to try to do something about it. 

Nick is going out of town, and Harry wasn't invited. Same with Liam and Niall. Even Oli is going back home, and Harry's not at all willing to put himself through meeting Oli's parents. Taylor said he could tag along back to hers, but he doesn't want to go to America for Christmas, and he knows that she has a habit of doing things for him that she doesn't actually want to do because she likes to see him smile. He wouldn’t want to intrude. 

So he smokes a bit of weed to give him the courage to text Louis, and he's beyond nervous about it, and he feels like an idiot, even though all he texts is, _what are you doing for the holidays?_ It's innocent enough. He's not going to invite himself anywhere. And even if he did, he knows deep down that Louis wouldn't mind it at all. 

Louis' response comes forty-five minutes later, when Harry's significantly more high. _I'm going back home for about a week or so. What about you?_

 _Nothing,_ seems too desperate. Too forward. So he settles with, _I'm not sure yet._

Louis' response is immediate, almost like he was hoping Harry would say that. _Want to come to mine? My mum would love to see you again :)_

His chest stutters and he can't help how wide he smiles. It's just -- Louis is too good to him. Louis could tell him to fuck off and it'd be completely justified. And even though he knows he doesn't deserve Louis' kindness, it makes him so fucking happy to know he has it. 

_could i?_ he types, and he stares at it for a long few seconds before pressing send. He ignores the itch to roll another joint as he waits for Louis to text him back. 

_Please do. I can drive you over and back no problem x._

Harry lets out a little puff of relief, and if he cries and struggles to figure out if it's with happiness or sadness, well, it doesn't really matter, because he has plans on Christmas for the first time in years. 

-

A few days later, he's stuck in his head and he feels numb. Everything is shit, basically. Taylor picks up on it fairly easily, and Harry still isn't used to being cared for so much by her.

"You're sad," she says softly, and immediately, Harry shakes his head. They're laying in his bed, and she has her arm hooked around his belly and her head is resting against his bare chest. "Yeah, you are. Don't lie. You only call me for sex when you're sad."

"That's not why I called you," he protests, because it's not. Not the entire reason, anyway. Maybe she is his go-to to have sex with when he's sad, but that's not because he's using her or anything -- they're actually friends -- it's because she's the most careful and gentle with him, and he needs that right now.

She stays pointedly silent, and Harry sighs. 

"Not the _only_ reason," he amends, and she pats his chest like that's better. 

"What's wrong, then?" she asks. She sits up and sets her chin on her hand, staring down at him. He looks back at her for a little while, saying nothing, before shrugging. 

"I just don't feel good."

Taylor nods like she understands what Harry means, and she runs her hand over his stomach softly. It sends a chill over his body, even though his brain knows that she's not asking for a round two, but trying to comfort him. "Did you ever end up reading those pamphlets Louis gave you?" 

He nods. They're sitting in the dresser next to his bed, in the same drawer as his blade. It's stopped him from cutting more than a few times, and that's. . . probably not how Louis thought he was going to use it, but still. 

"Are they helping any? Because you're still. . ." she trails off, not because she's disgusted and doesn't want to say it, but because she knows Harry has a hard time talking about this and she doesn't want to make it worse. 

Harry's pretty sure he could end up falling in love with her someday. They've both promised each other that if, in fifteen years, they still aren't dating anyone, they'd settle down with each other. Even though she was partially joking, he's pretty sure he'd be happy with her like that. It would be settling, wouldn't it, but he doesn't mind the idea of settling with someone like her. 

"I've been doing it less," he mumbles, glancing away. He went a whole week without doing it at all a little while ago, and he'd be a little proud of himself if it wasn't for how much he actually wanted to do it. 

"I know. I know. I just wish you could stop altogether." She doesn't say anything for a long minute, and Harry thinks she's going to drop it before she sighs quietly and rubs more insistently at his chest. "The cut near your hip looks pretty bad, Haz. Like, it looks deeper than the rest."

"That was an accident, I promise." He turns around to his side and lowers himself down in the bed so he can press his face into her stomach. She laughs softly when he presses a kiss below her navel, and she starts to pet his hair as he wraps an arm over her hip, pulling her closer. "You're such a good person, Taylor. It's stupid."

She laughs again and pulls at his hair a bit harshly. " _You're_ stupid."

"Stupid to be wasting your time on someone so fucked like me."

"Probably," she agrees, and he smiles despite how shit he feels. That's why he likes being near her when he's feeling this terrible. "But you're a lot less fucked than you were when I met you, so. There's that."

Another person telling him he's grown. More confusion rests on Harry's heart, because he's not sure how true that is still. With Taylor, though, it's a little less confusing, because when he met her at Nick's friend's party, he was crying quietly on the back porch, by himself and wearing only a t-shirt in the freezing night air. Oli had said something awful to him that day, he can't even remember what he said anymore, and Nick told him he was an idiot for being worked up over something Oli said. She sat next to him on the steps, asked him quietly if he was okay, and when he nodded his head and wiped at his face hurriedly, she took off her jacket and set in on his shoulders. 

It was quiet for a long time, and then she randomly told him a funny story about her brother and he sat there, listening intently. She sat there talking to him about absolutely everything for close to an hour, and he stayed listening. 

"I want to meet Louis," she says. "When he picks you up to take you to back home, I want to meet him."

"Okay," he agrees easily enough. He doesn't care. It won't be awkward; Taylor and Louis don't let situations become awkward if they can help it, so he doesn't have to worry about that. "He'll think we're dating, though."

She scoffs quietly. "Would be tragic, that. What ever would I do if I were attached to a face like yours?"

He rolls his eyes. "Cry, probably."

"Most definitely," she agrees. She slows the pace of her fingers and then hums quietly. "You should sleep, if you can. You seem tired."

He probably shouldn't. He is tired, but if he sleeps now, then he won't be able to sleep tonight, and that's usually when he can't fight the urge to cut. But Taylor's skin is warm against his and he wants to fall asleep right here. Maybe he'll ask her to stay the night. For him, she probably would. 

-

Liam and Niall are different stories than Taylor. 

They're loud and slightly irresponsible and not as careful with him. They don't know the ins and outs of his brain like she does, although they both have seen the cuts pressed into his skin, because he sleeps with them, too. Occasionally. Not that often. Niall has a girlfriend sometimes, and Liam is only up for the no strings attached kind of sex with Harry when they're both drunk. 

He met Liam through Oli at a party, and he met Niall through work. Niall quit the floral shop a few months ago to open up his own business, but when he was there working with Harry, they both had probably too much fun. Harry's pretty sure that Niall's the one who pulled him out of the slump he was in after Louis left. He's just so bright, and the warmth he radiates is hard to ignore. 

They don’t see each other more than a couple times a month. They don’t have to. They text every few days, sometimes more and sometimes less, and that’s what works between them. It’s not because they’re not important, or they don’t make the time for each other, it’s that they don’t have to spend a lot of time together to love each other. What’s most important to him is that when he needs them, or they need him, they’re immediately there for each other. 

Harry can only handle being around them when he's feeling good. He feels awful about it because they're friends, but sometimes he can't take how energetic they are. When he wants a quiet night in, he goes to Taylor or hangs around Nick more than usual. Occasionally, if the two of them are busy, he'll go to Oli's, but he almost always regrets doing that for one reason or another. 

Still, he ends up at Oli's more often than he lets on. Like tonight. 

They're not even talking. Oli is mad at him for not wanting to come to his hometown in Yorkshire for the holidays. Harry knew that before coming over here, but he didn't know how angry he actually was. It's like he's hurt, almost, which is odd, because Harry didn't know he was capable of being hurt. 

"I don't know why you'd even want to go to Louis'," Oli says, and his voice makes Harry jump. Neither of them have talked in the last half hour, both just staring down at their phones in silence. 

Harry looks at him with wide eyes. "I wouldn't mind seeing his family again. His mum, and all that. Haven't seen them in ages."

"How do you know they even want to see you?” Oli asks. “You don't. It'd be selfish, going over there and ruining their holidays like that."

"Saying shit like that isn't going to make me want to come to yours any more," Harry grumbles, and he doesn't know if it's something bitchier than he'd normally say, or if he said it with more meaning, but whatever it is, it makes Oli get angrier quicker than Harry's ever seen before.

In an instant, Oli is reaching over and yanking Harry forward by his wrist, his fingers digging into Harry's skin painfully. He lets out a quiet gasp of pain as he twists out of Oli's grip, and once he does, he immediately grabs his phone and stands. He goes to the door, making sure to get some distance between them. 

Oli's never touched him like that before. 

"You've never touched me like that before."

He's scared, he recognizes. In a fully body type of way, like how he used to feel when his dad started to raise his voice. Like his body has cold water flushing out his veins and it's made his head fuzzy and his chest spasm. 

Oli scoffs and gives him a disinterested look. "Yeah, well. Maybe I should start."

And that's when Harry makes the decision to cut Oli off for good. It really is that clear. You let someone touch you like that once without consequences, they'll do it again, and again, and again, and he's not becoming his mother. He refuses to repeat the cycle. 

"Fuck you," Harry spits, and then the courage leaves his body as fast as it came and he quickly leaves Oli's flat. He doesn't slam the door even if he really wants to, and he doesn't allow himself to panic in his car until he's a few blocks away. When he feels like it's safe to, he pulls to the side of the road and takes a deep breath, putting his head against the headrest and closing his eyes. 

Oli's never physically touched him like that. He's yelled at Harry until he's cried, and he goes a little too rough on Harry during sex, but grabbing his wrist like that -- intentionally inflicting pain on him in order to get something in return, in order to punish Harry -- is something that hasn't happened before. Except for maybe that time he cut Harry, but that was ages ago, and Harry's already given up on hating him for that. 

He takes a few minutes to himself, trying to calm himself down. A few minutes is actually twenty-five, he realizes once he checks his phone. It didn’t feel like that much time passed by. 

Louis' texted him. _Pick you up at eight am on tues? Sound good?_

And the idea of going back to Holmes Chapel in two days with Louis sounds impossible right now. He's been worried like mad about it -- what if he bumps into his dad somehow, what if his parents hear he's in town, what if Louis' mum thinks he's failure, what if Harry can't take not cutting for an entire week and does something stupid -- but right now, he truly thinks he can't do it. It was dumb to think he could go, to think he and Louis were close enough still for that to be okay. For it to not be awkward. 

Harry grabs his phone, and with clumsy fingers and his brain telling him he'll regret it later and that he's just being impulsive right now, he types out, _I don't think I'm going to go anymore actually, sorry. Have a happy christmas x_ , and presses send. 

He's almost surprised at how quickly his phone lights up with a call from Louis. He ignores it and sets his phone on the passenger seat before starting the car again and driving back home. Back to Nick's. It's only a fifteen minute drive from where he is, and when he gets home, Nick is already sitting at the kitchen's breakfast bar, waiting for him. 

When Harry gets in, Nick lets out a long, dramatic sigh and loudly closes the magazine he's reading. "You're going to the Tomlinson’s for Christmas," he says, sounding bored. "And don't get all pouty on me. You were excited about it last night, and you might be a little crazy, but even you don't change your mind that quickly. You're going."

"Nick," Harry says, tired. He pulls off his shoes and tosses them near the door and then does the same with his jacket and the coat rack. "I don't want to go anymore. It's fine."

"I'm pretty sure you broke his heart," Nick argues, and that makes Harry stop walking and look at Nick guiltily. "Louis wants to spend Christmas with you again, so please just fucking spend Christmas with him. Why does everything have to be such a struggle with you?" 

Nick's not being mean, exactly. He is, but not out of anger, he's just tired. Tired of Harry pulling the same shit over and over again. 

"If you're absolutely miserable when you get there," Nick says slowly, "I'll come pick you up, no questions asked."

Harry squints at him. That doesn't sound terrible. It gives him an out if he needs one. And he does want to go to Louis', really bad. 

"Okay," Harry agrees quietly. "Okay. I'll text him now. Sorry."

"For what?"

Harry scoffs and gives him a thin smile. "Being such a pain in the arse all the time, I guess."

Nick grins at him and shakes his head. "You're still alright, Styles. You were more tolerable when you let me fuck you every once and a while, but." He shrugs, and Harry forces himself to laugh. He told Nick that he was trying to slow down his sex life when he started cutting again, that way Nick wouldn't see and get angry. 

Harry gives him a tight smile before going upstairs to his room. 

He doesn't text Louis right away. He takes a quick shower, changes into comfy, baggy clothes, smokes a bit, and then crawls into bed. He grabs his phone and sees messages from a few people -- Taylor, Niall, Oli, Louis -- and clicks on Louis'. Before he reads them, he turns on the TV and turns on something he likes. 

_Please don't do that_ , is what the first one reads. _I've been beyond excited about this. Embarrassingly excited. Please don't back out now_ , is the second one. _If you have a legitimate reason, please tell me what it is. But if this is you backing out because you're scared, for the love of god, let yourself have something good for once,_ is what the last text reads.

Harry lets out a long sigh. He hates how predictable he is, and how everyone around him has to sift through his bullshit like this. _I'm sorry_ , he writes, biting his lip. The weed was smart, because he doesn't feel as shitty right now as he's sure he would've without it. _I'll come. I want to come. Just freaked out for a minute there. Ignore me. 8 is fine._

Louis' text comes through quickly. _Gooood :) If you're worried about anything I can help with, please let me know x_

-

Eight o'clock on Tuesday comes quicker than Harry would've liked it to. 

He wakes at five in the morning, partly because he can't sleep and partly because he knows he should get packing now. He ends up pushing it off until seven, and then Taylor's there and sighing at him, disappointed that he waited so long. And he knows she has a point, but it felt like if he didn't pack, then he wasn't going, and he's still all bent up about it. 

At Louis' mum's house, Harry can't cut, can't smoke, and there's no one there to have sex with to distract him, and so about all of Harry's coping mechanisms are eliminated, and that's. . . terrifying. Threatening. But Nick said he can call him whenever, and he's trying to let that soothe him. 

Still, he can't help but feel like maybe this was a terrible idea to start with, and that he shouldn't have even bothered. 

Harry's nerves get the best of him around seven fifty, when Louis' due to be coming in ten minutes, and he caves and smokes a bit. He told himself he wasn't going to before he left, but he's thankful that he did because Louis' ten minutes late and Harry's hands are shaking from how nervous he is. 

"It's just Louis, love," Taylor says softly. She runs her hand over his arm before standing and gathering his weed, putting everything in a plastic bag and tucking it into one of Harry's socks. She places it at the bottom of his bag, and it's probably a bad idea; he'll be tempted, knowing that it's there, but she tells him quietly that she's pretty sure they'd all rather him reach for a joint than something to hurt himself with if he gets overwhelmed. 

At 8:15, Louis' still not there, and Harry's convinced himself that he's not coming at all. That Louis thought about it more, and realized Harry coming was going to ruin his family's holiday so he decided not to come after all. 

"It's just Louis," Taylor keeps saying, even though it's not true. It's not just Louis. It's Louis' entire family, it's being back in Holmes Chapel for the first time in years, it's having to constantly be afraid that he'll bump into his parents. He's pretty sure he'd throw up if he saw his dad. His mum and his sister, he would be able to handle, but his dad -- his dad is a different story, and Harry is terrified of him. 

"Don't know why I thought this was a good idea," Harry breathes out at 8:20, and his hands are properly shaking now. They're sweaty, too, and he's pretty sure he could be having a small anxiety attack. If that's a sign of what's to come, he doesn't want any of it to come at all. 

"Because you want a happy Christmas for the first time in your goddamn life," she says fiercely, and well, yeah. That was the reason. But that reason seems so trivial now, so out of reach. "You'll be fine, Harry."

He's about to tell her no, that he's going to be the opposite of fine, when there's a knock on the door. Harry's heart drops to his stomach, and he looks to Taylor instinctively, trying to figure out what he should do next. 

"Go answer the door, babe," she says, and that is the most logical next move, isn't it. God, he's an idiot sometimes. 

He stands and goes to the door, ignoring how shaky his legs feel. Only for a moment does he hesitate before opening the door, and Louis' standing there, bundled up in a coat with his nose red. He gives Harry a warm smile, and Harry attempts to give him one back. It must not look convincing, because Louis snorts, not unkindly, and says, "You're shitting yourself, aren't you?"

Harry digs his teeth into his lip and shrugs. "Maybe a bit."

"It's going to be a bit overwhelming at first, I'm not going to lie, but I swear to you, it's probably not going to be as awful as you think it will be." He smiles again and then lets out a small huff. "Now I really have to piss, and I know Grimshaw has too many bathrooms in this stupid house, so show me to one, will you?"

Harry nods and holds the door open as Louis enters the house. He closes the door behind him and points him towards the closest bathroom, and Louis thanks him quietly, following his directions. 

For a few seconds, Harry stands there, trying to steady himself, and then he walks back to the living room to grab his two bags. He slings the smaller one around his shoulder and sets the other one on the inside of his elbow. Taylor watches him, and once he's done, she stands and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

"You'll be brilliant, babes."

He gives her a look. "I don't care about being brilliant, I just don't want to look like a complete idiot."

"Brilliant," she insists, giving him a firm look, and Harry nods once before returning the kiss to her cheek and heading back to the kitchen. She follows, and they wait there for another minute or so before Louis comes back from the bathroom. 

As soon as Louis' eyes fall on Taylor, he immediately looks skeptical, and Harry doesn't take offense to it and he hopes Taylor doesn't, either. Harry doesn't have the best track record with friends. 

"I'm Taylor," she says, extending her hand out for a handshake. Louis accepts it and nods. 

"Louis."

She's going to say something catty, Harry can see it in her eyes, so to try and avoid a potential jab, he clears his throat and intervenes. "She's my friend," he says, and then realizes that that's a stupid thing to say. He tries to fix it. "She, um. She's been helping me, I suppose."

Louis' face softens a bit, and his thought process is clear on his face: _I'll like anyone who makes him happy_. The fondness on his face makes Harry's stomach clench with -- he doesn't know, exactly. Probably just anxiety. That's his body's response to everything, it seems. 

"That's good, H," Louis says. And then to Taylor: "Thank you."

She shrugs, like it's easy being there for someone like him. It's not, Harry knows it's not. Louis knows it’s not easy, either, so he doesn’t know why she bothers lying. She takes up so much of her time trying to help him, it's probably unfair to her. He appreciates her more than anything. 

They leave a few minutes later, after Taylor reaches for him and wraps him in a hug like she can't help herself, after she tells him to be good and to call her if he needs anything. Louis grabs his bags for him and puts them in the backseat, and Harry gets in the passenger seat. Once he's buckled and staring at Nick's house, his chest gets hot, and he can't help but think how stupid this was of him. How impulsive. 

He's done worse things on impulse, though. It's a week. He can do it. 

"No going back now," Louis jokes as he starts the car, and Harry must make a face, because Louis lets out a hurried laugh and shakes his head. "Kidding. Totally kidding. I can take you home whenever. Just say the word and we'll go."

"Thanks," Harry says quietly. He glances out the window, and he's pretty sure that's where he's going to be looking the entire drive over. All three and a half hours of it. 

Belatedly, Harry realizes that Louis' planning on driving the whole time, and he offers to take over at some point, but Louis shakes his head. 

"I don't mind it," Louis says, shrugging. "It's relaxing. Plus, you haven't been home in ages, I don't think. . . Might get us lost."

Again, it's a joke. Again, Harry's stomach sinks. 

Louis lets it be as he backs out of Nick's driveway and goes down his street. Once they stop at a stop sign, he turns to him. "You should sleep, if you can. I have blankets in the back, if you're cold. I don't want you getting yourself in a tizzy before we even get there."

"I'll be fine," Harry says weakly. 

Louis doesn't look so sure. He presses his foot on the gas pedal and turns right. "This is a big deal for you, H. I recognize that. So does my mum. Which, by the way, we've told everyone not to mention to your mum or sister that you're staying with us."

That relieves Harry more than he thought it would. "Thank you."

"Just. . . " he lets out a heavy breath. "Try to remember that it's Christmas, and you're spending it surrounded by people who love and accept you."

Tears burn his eyes, and he knows he shouldn't bother saying it, but he does anyway. "None of your family knows me anymore."

"Doesn't matter," Louis argues. "We're all proud of you."

"That's stupid. I've not done anything."

Louis scoffs. "Yeah, you've only managed to make it through a shit childhood and battled mental illnesses your entire life. That's plenty easy, you're right."

"Your childhood wasn't easy either," Harry protests, because that's -- crazy. And stupid. Harry knows he's not had the easiest life so far, but he doesn't deserve to be praised for getting through it. It's not like he's done it gracefully, by any means. "And you went to university and got your shit together, and now you're in a position to help your family."

"Couldn't have done it if I got my head kicked in by my dad every night," Louis says, and then he winces at how insensitive that sounds. "I'm just saying, Harry. Don't go in there thinking anyone is going to be, like, disappointed in you or something."

And he wants to say they should be, or list a hundred reasons why they might be, but he doesn't because he doesn't want Louis to have to coddle him this entire time. He doesn't say anything and looks back out the window. 

They drive another half hour before either of them say anything else. It's a comfortable type of quiet, mostly. The radio is on and Louis is tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat, and Harry focuses on the noise of that with his eyes closed. He grabbed the blanket in the back, and it's making him feel a little better. 

"Taylor seems nice," Louis says, which causes Harry to sleepily open his eyes at the sound of his voice. He probably will kill an hour of this drive by sleeping. 

"She is," Harry agrees. "Proper nice. Takes care of me a lot."

"Are you two dating?"

Harry snorts. "I told her you were going to say that," he says quietly, shaking his head. "No, we aren't. I'm not dating anybody. She's just. . . a really close friend. Almost went over to Tennessee with her for Christmas."

Louis grins. "So I'm still your first choice, hmm?"

In most things, probably. If Harry desperately needed help -- rewind two years back -- or needed something that he felt insecure about needing -- pause at this entire trip -- he'd go to Louis. He uses Louis, probably. Because after all this time, Louis is still some sort of security blanket to Harry, to an extent. 

And he doesn't need to be thinking so hard about everything Louis says, because again, it's obvious Louis' only teasing. 

Another fifteen minutes go by, Harry's so close to falling asleep when Louis asks, "Can we talk about it? I mean, your self-harm. Just this once, and I won't bring it up again."

And, well. That's a good way to wake Harry up. He sits up straighter and hugs the blanket closer. One of his hands goes down to prod at the cuts subconsciously. "I suppose," he says quietly. 

"All I want to know is if you brought anything with you." He sounds guilty, which makes Harry feel a little less attacked. "Because if you did -- "

"I didn't," Harry says quickly. 

Louis relaxes slightly. "Okay. Okay, good. Is it. . . I swear I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable."

"It's fine, Lou."

"Is it going to be hard for you? Not doing it for that long?" He swears under his breath and shakes his head. "Obviously it's going to be. I'm being stupid. But, like. Are you going to be okay?"

"I should be able to handle it. I mean, I kind of have to, anyway." He wants to stop talking about it, but it's clear this is a subject that's causing Louis a lot of stress, so he takes a deep breath. "I'm not clean, and. . . to be honest with you, I've not tried very hard to be. But I'm not doing it all that often. Just, like. . . occasionally. And I think I'll actually try harder when I get back home, because I'm not talking to Oli anymore and I usually have a better chance of stopping when I'm not talking to him."

Louis looks surprised. "You aren't talking to him anymore? What changed?"

"He's a dick."

"I said what changed?" Louis says, laughing tightly. "He's always been a dick."

Harry considers not telling Louis. Louis would leave it be if Harry asked him to, but. . . He hasn't talked to anyone about what happened. He knows everybody isn't going to see it as a big deal, and Harry doesn't want to feel invalidated in his emotions. But Louis -- Louis has held him while he was bleeding and sporting terrible bruises and broken bones. Louis will understand it more than anyone else could.

"He grabbed me in a way I didn't like," Harry admits quietly. He finds himself rolling his eyes. He's deflecting, probably. Instinctively trying to make it seem like not a big deal. "He, like. Grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer really hard. He was angry, and, like, he didn't do anything else, but." He shrugs. "I don't know. I just didn't like it."

"Of course you didn't," Louis says firmly. "You're doing the right thing, not talking to him. Not letting him get away with that."

Harry nods. He knows he is. 

"If you let them do it once. . . " Louis trails off, probably scared he's preaching about something Harry knows intimately and doesn't need to be taught. 

"They'll do it again, I know. And now that I have a few other friends, like. . . blocking him out doesn't sound impossible anymore."

Louis nods. "Good, H. That's really good."

Harry cuddles up to the blanket more, and he's about to tell Louis that he's going to sleep before he figures he might as well be fully transparent with Louis now that they're on the topic. "I did bring some weed, though," he says quietly, embarrassed. Bringing a bag of weed to smoke into Louis' house when he has all those younger siblings probably isn't the most mature thing for him to do. "Obviously I won't smoke it at your house."

Louis laughs a little and shakes his head. "It's fine, mate. It's just weed. I mean, yeah, don't smoke it around my mum or she'll kill you, but I don't care."

"Okay."

"And don't have your bag on the ground, then, 'cause I don't want the dog getting into it."

"Okay," Harry repeats. That's simple enough. He doesn't know why he thought Louis would give him a hard time about it. 

-

Harry does end up falling asleep a little while after that, and it's for much longer than he intended to. He didn't realize how tired he was, but he woke up an hour and a half later to Louis getting in the car with two slurpees. Harry blinks at him tiredly and sits up slowly. They're at a gas station, and there's a pizza in the back. 

"Hey," Louis says softly. "I was going to wake you up. Figured you might have to piss by now."

Harry nods. He does. He gets out of the car with half-asleep, sore limbs and goes into the gas station as Louis fills up his tank. He keeps his head down on the way to the bathroom to avoid any conversation or awkward eye contact and does the same as he goes back to the car.

Louis' sitting in the car by the time he gets back, and he's fiddling with the radio. He gives Harry a smile as he buckles in, and Harry returns it. He feels more settled now. The nap did him good. 

"It's cold," Harry complains, and he meant that it's cold outside but Louis immediately turns the heat up in the car. "Thanks."

Louis nods. "No problem. I got us a pizza, if you're hungry. I already ate a piece. You were out cold, so I didn't bother waking you. If it's cold now, sorry."

Harry shrugs and reaches back into the backseat to grab the pizza box. He grabs a slice for himself and puts it on a napkin in his lap, and Louis takes another piece himself. It has gone a little cold, although Harry doesn't care. Pizza is pizza. 

Louis starts the car, and they're off again. They probably only have another hour and a half or so, maybe a little more. Harry doesn't really know where they are, to be completely honest; the highway names sound vaguely familiar, and that's about it. It makes him sad, a bit. 

Harry eats the pizza and checks his phone. He replies to a few messages from his friends and ignores the ones from Oli that have been piling in his inbox. As he's texting Nick back about where he put his hairdryer -- _don't know mate, i don't use the hairdryer_ \-- Louis clears his throat. 

"You still working at that flower shop?" Louis asks, and it's clear he's trying to make conversation, so Harry forces himself to answer with more than a simple yes. 

"Yeah," he says. "Might even get promoted to assistant manager." He laughs and says it in a way that implies it's not a big deal, and that it's a joke, but Louis gives him a look that tells him to stop that. 

"That's a big deal, isn't it?"

"I don't know," Harry admits. Is it? Assistant manager of anything is probably something to be proud of, but, like -- he's not doing anything important. He's a bloody florist; that's nothing noteworthy. And it's not like flowers are his fucking passion, or anything, and he's got a feeling that if his pay gets upped enough, he'll get complacent and stay working there forever. 

"How much more work is it going to be for you?"

"Not much, really. I mean, how much is there to actually do at a flower shop?"

Louis makes a small noise, low in the back of his throat. "You're very self-deprecating, you know."

He does know. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Louis says, shaking his head. "Just. . . say something nice about yourself every once and while, alright?"

Taylor and Niall have both said the same thing to him countless times, and it used to make him beyond irritated but now he kind of doesn't mind it. 

"So," Louis starts. "Has anything else exciting happened since we last spoke?"

Harry shakes his head, and that's the honest truth. It's a bit embarrassing, how little he actually does. But he tries not to let that bother him, because the slow, reasonable pace he's set for himself since he stopped going out and getting blindingly high every other night has been good for him. "I mostly just work and then go home and relax. Nothing exciting." 

Harry exhales quietly. "You?"

He fully expects to hear about all these wonderful adventures Louis' been on, and he braces himself for it, for the disgusting jealousy that always comes when he realizes how much more successful Louis is than him. It doesn't come, though, because all Louis says is, "Not much, actually," with a shrug. 

Harry tilts his head at him. "I don't know if I believe that."

Louis laughs. "What, did you expect me to say I went to, like, the Bahamas or something?" He laughs again and shakes his head. "The most exciting thing I do with my days off is sleep and occasionally go out to the pub with Zayn. That's about it." He looks a little sad suddenly, and Harry's gut twists. "It's hard making friends in a big city like this, especially when you work five twelve hour shifts a week. About all I have is Zayn, really."

"And me," Harry says, even though it's so fucking stupid. Louis doesn't have him as a friend, because Harry is unreliable and inconsistent and selfish. Still -- Harry would like to think Louis thinks of him as a go-to if he ever needs one. 

"And you," Louis agrees quietly. "Always you."

Harry wonders how many days Louis has spent lonely because Zayn was working or had other plans. It makes him feel so, so guilty. He hadn't even thought of how Louis would fit in London; Louis fits in everywhere. At least, he used to.

"Don't apologize," Louis says, quieter than before. "I know that's what you're about to do, so don't. It's fine."

Harry shakes his head. "It's not. I forget I'm not the only one who struggles."

"Doesn't matter. We're here now, right? And we're gonna spend Christmas together."

"Yeah."

He doesn't know what else to say. 

A few minutes of heavy silence goes by, and Harry's staring down at his hands, wondering what else he should say when Louis lets out a weak laugh. 

"What?" Harry asks, furrowing his eyebrows. 

Louis lets out a sigh and rolls his eyes. "Totally forgot to get you a gift. God, I invite you with me for Christmas and don't even get you a gift."

Harry laughs and tells him it's fine, that he didn't get him anything either, and the weighted silence goes away in exchange for a relaxed quiet as they listen to the radio. And when Louis starts singing along to an Oasis song quietly, it makes Harry want to cry, a little. 

He wonders how many other things like this in life he's been depriving himself from. 

-

When they pull into Louis' mum's driveway, Harry forces himself to act calm. He does his best at shutting his brain off and wiping the slate clean, because if he lets himself think too hard about this, he'll probably have some sort of an episode, and he's trying to avoid that. He takes a deep breath, gets out of the car, grabs his bags and then one of Louis' when he sees him struggling, and then he's walking up the sidewalk to her house behind Louis and he's _fine_. 

As Louis sets down a bag to unlock the door, a flash of the last time Harry was here hits him. The concussion, the hospital, the doctors; that was a terrible, terrible night. Probably the worst in his entire life. He thought he was actually going to die. And then the time before that, when he slept in Louis' bed for the first time since Louis went away. . . that was awful, too. 

He doesn't realize Louis' looking at him until he reaches out to squeeze Harry's shoulder. Harry's doing a shit job at not thinking, so he forces himself to nod at Louis. 

"It's just my family," Louis says, and Harry nods again. It's just Louis' family. Louis' giant, loud family that will all be looking at him and talking to him and wondering why the fuck he's here after so many years. 

Louis looks a bit guilty as he pushes open the door. As soon as that door swings open, chaos immediately erupts from the house, and God, Harry still doesn't know what he was thinking. 

A dog runs up to them, and that's fine. Harry can handle a dog; he likes dogs, and this one is small and wiggling around like it can't help itself. Louis calls the small Boston Terrier Cleo, and then a demon and a little shit, and then two little toddlers come running towards the door, and _Jesus_ , are those Louis' siblings? Surely, he would've mentioned that there's two more of them now, but maybe not, because he probably feared it'd overwhelm Harry even more. And, well. He was right. 

"Yeah, kiddos," Louis says, abandoning his bags to allow them to fling themselves into his arms. Harry keeps his hands firm around his own bags, not ready to accept the fact that he's going to be staying here for an entire week. 

It's not like he's not grateful. It's not even like he doesn't want to be here. It's just -- this is a lot. And he's been known to not be able to handle much smaller.

"This," Louis says, turning one toddler to Harry. She's got orange hair, and Harry wonders where the fuck that came from. The rest of them are all brunette. She's adorable, though. "Is Doris. And this little shit is Ernst. They're four."

Harry nods slowly, taking them in. They're intimidating, a bit, which is stupid because they're _four._ "He looks a lot like you."

"Gross," Louis mumbles, even though it makes him grin. He squeezes both of the kids' arms. "And this is Harry. He's a very good friend of mine, so you have to be nice to him, okay?"

"Hello," Doris greats, while Ernst kind of just stares at him with an arm hooked around Louis' neck. 

For a fraction of a second, Harry thinks he can handle this. Louis and two kids and a dog; that's fine. He can get used to this, and then when everyone else comes, he'll be able to handle that, too. But then Louis' mum walks into the living room, and Harry feels like the breath has been punched out of him. 

Louis stands to shut the door behind Harry, and Harry just stands there staring at her, feeling so incredibly stupid. He didn't realize how much he's missed her until right now, and it makes tears leap to his eyes and his throat gets all hot. She'd practically been his second mum growing up -- his first mum, it felt like sometimes. She was the only adult, the _only_ one, throughout his childhood that made him feel safe and unconditionally loved. She made him feel cared for, and she took him in night after night even when she struggled to put food on the table for her own kids. 

"Hello, love," she says softly, and she's looking at him even though she must be talking to Louis, because why would she greet Harry first when he's the one who hasn't spoken to her in years? It's not like she never tried to call. She tried holding on to him longer than Louis had, and he completely ignored her. 

But then she's laughing quietly and coming over, and no, it's definitely him she's talking to. She wraps her arms around his shoulders the best she can with him carrying three bags. He completely freezes for a moment, and then he manages to stop acting like a moron; he puts down two of the bags, the other a duffel on his back, and then wraps his arms around her middle. If he hugs her so hard it hurts, he doesn't mean to, but he's positive she doesn't care because she's doing the same to him. 

"Oh, you're so grown up now, darling," she whispers. He doesn't say anything, can't. His throat is so hot it feels like every word will get incinerated before it has a chance to get out. He doesn’t want to talk to her right now, not about anything serious. And then Louis taps his back and takes the twins to the kitchen, where happy voices are flooding from, and Harry doesn’t really have a choice. 

When it's just them and Cleo huffing for attention at their feet, Jay pulls away slightly and squeezes his shoulders. "It's so good to see you again, Harry. So good to see you home."

He nods as he moves his hands to her elbows. "It's good -- um." He stops when his voice comes out too tight and hoarse. He clears his throat. "Thanks for having me."

"Thank you for coming. I was so shocked when Louis told me you'd be tagging along, I. . . I almost didn't know what to do."

"Sorry," he says without thinking. If he was capable of thinking, he wouldn't have said that, because Jay is a lot like Louis in the way that she'll call him out for being dumb. 

She does. "Sorry for what?"

"Just -- for being so last minute, I guess."

_And for ignoring Louis, and for ignoring you, and for taking so much from your family as a child, and for never repaying you back in any way, and for possibly wrecking your holiday plans._

"It's perfectly okay, promise." She smiles warmly and squeezes his shoulders before pulling away entirely. She bends down to pick up Cleo, who huffs happily and squirms as she tries to lick Jay's face. "She was Louis' Christmas present to the girls last year. Couldn't have just bought them a sweater, or something."

Harry finds it in him to let out a small laugh. "She's cute."

"She's a pain in the arse," Jay corrects, shaking her head. "You don't look at her when she wants you to, and she starts whining so loudly you'd think she's being abused."

Harry lets out another laugh, this one more forced and awkward. He doesn't know what to do or so, so he reaches out to pet at Cleo's head. 

"How've you been then, darling?" she asks. There's something in her eyes that makes Harry think she knows too much, that she'll scoff at a fine or good. Harry makes a mental note to ask Louis just how much he's told her -- and knowing Louis and his mother's relationship, the answer will be _everything._

He didn't think of that. He should've realized Louis wouldn't keep Harry's problems between them. And he's too emotionally drained right now to be angry at that, even though he's got a feeling he'll get the motivation to be later. 

So he can't lie and say good. Instead, he smiles tightly and says, "I've just been doing my best."

"And that's all anyone can ask for, right?"

He nods, and then she sets a hand on his back to guide him to the kitchen where everyone else is. Phoebe and Daisy and Fizzy and Lottie and the little twins and Louis and a man that Harry doesn't recognize, but is pretty sure is someone's father and the rest's stepdad. Cleo lets out a squeaky bark, which must mean that she wants to be put down, because that's what Jay does, and now Cleo's gone and got everyone's attention focused on the doorway. 

Harry's never wanted to hide more in his entire life, and even though that's probably a lie, it feels very real right now. 

Louis immediately stands from where he's sitting next to Lottie (shit, she looks so different; they all do) and comes over to him. "That's Dan," he says, pointing to the man. "He's the little twins' father."

Dan waves, and for a terrifying minute Harry thinks he's leaning forward to shake his hand, but he ends up grabbing a cup off the center of the table. Harry relaxes slightly. 

"Well, since it's nearing lunch and we just ate, I figured we could just relax in my room for a little bit, as the rest of them eat?" Louis' looking at him like Harry would actually say, _oh, no, let's stay out here and socialize some more_.

Still, he tries to pretend like he's not dying to get away. He shrugs and adjusts the strap of the duffle bag on his shoulder. “That’s fine. I'm not really hungry, so."

They go back for their bags left by the door and head to Louis' room. It's disorienting, walking through and relearning this house when it used to be where he spent the majority of his time. Things are the same, more or less. Pictures have been swapped out for updated versions, walls have been repainted, and Harry's pretty sure the wooden floors have been redone, but it's still the same house. It has the same homey feel as it used to. 

When he thinks about it, though, any house would have had a homey feel to him as a kid as long as it was one that he wasn’t being hurt in. 

Louis' room is entirely the same, which completely messes with Harry's head for a second, because if he tried hard enough, he could probably pretend he was sixteen again and crawling into Louis' bed to play video games and fuck around. He's surprised Louis' room hadn't been sacrificed for the other kids, because he's sure they're sharing rooms and such when there's a perfectly good, unused one right here. 

Louis sits on his bed and pulls off his shoes. He tosses them next to his bags and then lets out a loud sigh. "Hate sitting in a car for that long," he says tiredly, and before Harry can apologize, Louis shakes his head and sits up. "You can take another nap, if you want to. Or just chill here for a little while. I'm gonna have a shower, and then I'll probably go back downstairs to catch up with them."

Harry nods quickly. "Yeah, of course. I'll stay out of the way, like."

"Not what I meant," Louis says, sighing again. "You're more than welcome to come with me. Downstairs, I mean. I just kinda figured it's a lot for you right now, and you might want some time to yourself."

Harry nods, slower this time. 

"Okay, well." Louis stands and stretches, and a yawn erupts out of him. "I'm gonna shower. Feel free to use my bed. My mum changed the sheets last night, and I'm pretty sure you're going to be stuck sleeping in here with me, anyway."

"That's okay," Harry says, because it sounds like Louis' apologizing when there's nothing to apologize for. "It's not like I haven't shared a bed with you before."

Louis wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, but I haven't grown an inch since the ninth grade. You're, like, a giant now. Gonna have to push you off the bed."

Harry wonders why they're pretending like Louis didn't cuddle him up at night for a few weeks when Louis stayed at his flat, and then shakes it off. It's possible Louis wants to forget that entire time completely, and Harry doesn't blame him for that. 

Louis' about to go to the bathroom, and before he can, Harry calls out his name. He turns expectantly, and Harry fiddles with his hands as he asks, "Just, um. How much does your mum know, exactly? About, like. . . me."

And Louis looks so fucking guilty that Harry wants to _cry._ He doesn't want Jay knowing anything about who he is right now, and especially nothing about who he was two years ago. 

"A lot," Louis admits quietly. "Too much, probably. I'm sorry. I tell her everything."

Harry nods, biting down on his lip. He knows he does. "Yeah, but. . . how much of everything?"

"I honestly don't know how much I left out. I didn't go into details with a lot of it, but, like. . . " He scratches the back of his neck. "Pretty much everything, yeah."

Harry feels breathless. "Even -- ?" He can't even say it. He doesn't even want to say it. If Jay knows that Harry cuts himself, he's pretty sure he's not going to be able to look her in the eye for the rest of the week. 

"Yes. I'm sorry. Seriously."

" _Why_?" Harry snaps. "Why did you have to tell her _that_? Why did she need to fucking know that part of it? Everything else, like, okay, whatever, but you -- you didn't have to tell her _that._ "

"I was asking for her help, H," Louis says quietly. "I haven't told anyone else, and I told her not to tell anyone either. And I know that that's an insanely personal issue, one that you trusted me with, but -- Harry. She's my mum, and I didn't know how to help you. I just wanted some advice."

Harry scoffs, hurt burning his chest. 

"She's not going to hold it against you," Louis promises. "And she's not going to ask you about it, or try to bring it up. I told her specifically not to."

Again, Harry will find it in himself to be angry about this later. Right now he still can't muster it, so he sighs quietly and moves forward to plop on Louis' bed. 

"Haz," Louis says sadly. 

Harry shakes his head against Louis' pillow. "Just go shower, Lou. It’s fine."

-

Harry stays up in Louis' room longer than he means to. At first it's because he's feeling kind of prickly, and then it's because he's talking to Taylor on the phone, and then he accidentally falls asleep for a half hour. By the time he decides he should probably get out of Louis' room so he doesn't look rude, it's a little past three. 

He goes to the bathroom before heading downstairs, and he finds that the majority of the family is in the living room now. Jay has the younger twins in her lap, and the older twins are sitting to the left of Louis. Dan is next to Jay with Cleo on his lap. Harry doesn't know where Fizzy and Lottie went off to, but he supposes it doesn't really matter.

Jay smiles at him, and Louis wordlessly moves over so Harry can sit next to him. When he does, Louis smiles at him before turning back to look at his sister. 

They talk for a long time, just catching up. He hears all about the twins' schools dances and mates, about Lottie's career in makeup, and random stories that he only half pays attention to. It's not like he's not interested, it's just. It's a lot to handle still, so Harry focuses on the warmth of Louis' side against his as best he can. 

Dinner is pretty much the same thing; Louis and his family chatting animatedly and Harry sitting there as a silent observer next to Louis. He hopes he's not coming across rude. At one point, Jay asks Harry about his job, and Harry answers politely. Before she can ask any follow-up questions, Louis is flawlessly shifting the attention to someone else. It makes Harry relax, a little; Louis is clearly looking out for him, so maybe he should let his guard down. 

The rest of the family besides the youngest ones stay awake to watch a movie while Louis excuses him and Harry up to his room again. Harry says goodnight to them all quietly and follows Louis up the stairs, and when they're in Louis' room, Louis closes the door and asks him if he wants to watch a movie on his laptop.

Harry should probably tell Louis that he doesn't have to spend his entire time trying to soothe Harry's anxiety, that he should be spending time with his family while he's here, but he can't bring himself to say that. "Sure," he says instead. "Can I take a quick shower before, though?"

Louis nods. "Yeah. Go ahead. The soap and shampoo and stuff is already in there, and the towels are in the same cupboard they always are."

"Okay. Thanks."

Going into the shower, he doesn't exactly have the intention of irritating his healing cuts, although he's not surprised that's what he finds himself doing. It's just -- he's stressed. He's been stressed all day. And it doesn't feel exactly fair to deny himself one of the only things that make the stress pause momentarily. It only ever lasts for a few seconds, he knows that, but knowing that doesn't make him not want to do it. 

That's why getting clean is so hard. It boils down to a test of his will-power, and he's got shit motivation and strength. Taylor makes him want to stop, though. How upset she gets, how genuinely concerned. And he felt so good about himself those eleven months he was clean, better than he has is a long time. But knowing the reasons why he should stop, wanting to stop, and actually convincing himself to go through the motions of stopping are all very, very different things. 

He's going to try to not go back to it when he gets home, though. He'll try really hard. And that means he won't cut himself, not that he won't do what he's doing right now -- picking at scabs, begging them to bleed again -- because that's asking far, far too much out of him. Eventually, he'll stop that too, but after he stopped cutting the last time, it took him two months to stop pestering his old wounds, and when those did eventually healed, he moved to scratching. 

He will stop, though. He will. It's just, for right now, digging his nails into his injured skin is about the only way of deterring the stress that he has access to right now. 

-

The second day goes more or less the same as the first did. 

It's the twenty-second of December, so there's too many Christmas movies on and the kids seem to find them all interesting. Jay and Dan are at work, so Louis is kind of put in charge by default, but Harry's more than okay with sitting back and watching them just mess about. He helps Louis and Lottie cook breakfast, and he finds it relaxing. And it makes Louis seem pleased with him, so that's good, too. 

After dinner, he and Louis go outside to the backyard to play with Cleo a bit. Harry's the one who throws the ball while Louis watches quietly, and it goes out like that for a few minutes before Louis sighs quietly. 

"Are you having any fun?" he asks sadly. 

Harry frowns, looking at him. He's got Cleo's drool-covered ball in his hand, so before he responds, he throws it for her and wipes his hand clean on his pants. "Yeah. Yeah, I am. I'm -- sorry if I don't seem like it. I don't mean to be, like, a drag."

"You're not," Louis says, quick. "But I really want you to have a good time, and I feel like you're probably not. I mean, I know all we've done is hang around my family, but -- "

"Lou," Harry interrupts. Louis closes his mouth, waiting. "I'm having fun. Like, maybe we haven't done all that much, but I don't mind that. At all."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "I like spending time with you. That's why I wanted to come."

Cleo's back, panting hard and adding to the drool on the ball. She drops it at Harry's feet, and he picks it up to throw it for her again. 

"Don't know if I believe that," Louis mumbles. Harry looks at him again, hurt and guilty, and before he can respond, Louis' shaking his head. "No, don't say anything. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

Harry crosses his arms over his ribcage and pulls his legs closer to his body, his sneakers scratching against the cement. "I know I'm a shit friend."

"No, you're not."

"I am," Harry argues. "I know I am. I've been shit to you, and I know that, and I know that we'd be mates again if I just let you in more, but it's hard, and -- and maybe I came here because I wanted a not-shitty Christmas, but I also came here because I'm sick of screwing things up with you."

Louis doesn't say anything for a few minutes. He fumbles with the grass, yanking some pieces out and tossing them in front of him carelessly. Cleo is worn out, so Harry watches her panting above her ball a few feet away from them. 

"Feels like maybe we just aren't meant to be friends anymore," Louis says quietly, barely above a breath. It's like he's scared to say it, scared that's it true. And maybe it is, and maybe it's that simple. 

Harry looks down. "Yeah. Maybe."

"We're just so different, Haz. . . "

"I know."

"And I feel like we try to pretend like everything's the same as it was when we were kids whenever we're around each other now, because it worked then, but it's not -- it doesn't feel like it's working now."

God, everything Louis is saying is true, so why does Harry feel like he can't breathe? He turns his head to the side so Louis can't see the tears in his eyes or the way he's clenching his jaw. He feels like an idiot. He thought the last two days were good for him, and now Louis' telling him they don't work anymore. And maybe it hurts so much because _they don't_. It's so painfully obvious. Yeah, they have their strides, but it's so clear that Louis tries too hard around him, has to tip-toe around him, and that the only reason why Harry clings to him so hard is because of how they used to be. 

"I care about you," Louis says. "So much."

Harry nods, his throat too hot and tight to speak. 

"And I feel like we just need to restart, or something. . . Like, start from scratch. But I don't think that's even possible at this point."

Harry forces himself to swallow. He needs to respond, to say something, because the more Louis talks, the more Harry's chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself. His voice sounds completely wrecked as he asks, "Do you want me to go?" and it makes him cringe, but he can't just sit here listening to this. 

"God, no," Louis says quickly. "No, Harry. No. That's not what I'm getting at."

Harry's chest gets tighter at that, for some reason, and now he properly feels like he can't breathe. His face feels hot, as does the rest of his body, and he shifts away from Louis more so he can try to hide the sound of him choking on a failed breath. It doesn't work, and Louis' on him in an instant, plastering himself to Harry's back and cursing quietly and telling him that everything's fine.

"Forgot you get like this easily," Louis whispers as he pets Harry's hair, and Harry knows he doesn't mean it meanly, so he shifts so he can rest his cheek comfortably against Louis' shoulder. He's okay, he is; it's not a panic attack. It's not. He just -- forgot how to breathe for a second there, but he caught it in time and his lungs are slowly remembering their job, so it's fine. 

What's not fine, though, is Louis feeling like their friendship isn't worthwhile anymore. 

"I want you in my life still," Harry says, sniffling. "I know, I _know_ , I'm usually the one to push you out of it, but just -- be patient with me. Please. I'm trying."

"I'd never not want you in my life, Harry. That's not what I mean."

Harry closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. He grips onto the sleeve of Louis' jacket tightly. "What do you mean, then? 'Cause I don't get it."

"Just, like. . ." Louis sighs and squeezes Harry's arm. "I don't like how we keep just popping in and out of each other's lives. I want you to be a constant in my life, and I think. . . I think we won't be able to be mates like we used to be unless we stop doing this every time we see each other."

"Doing what?" Harry asks. 

"This," Louis says. "Me tip-toeing around you because I don't want to hurt you, and you shutting me out because you don't want to get hurt. It's hard. And I'm not saying I, like, mind taking care of you as much as you let me, because I don't, at all, but I -- I want us to be more than that. I want us to be friends. Properly, this time."

Harry tries not to overthink that. Louis' just trying to be honest with him. He's trying to get them on the same page so they don't lose each other again. And no, Harry hasn't particularly enjoyed the stops and starts of their interactions over the years, even if he was the close of the stops, usually, but -- he doesn't know if he can be reliable. He doesn't know how to be someone's friend, not really. He usually ends up taking too much from them, or not establishing boundaries, or annoying them. He doesn't want to annoy Louis. 

If Harry stays consistent in Louis' life again, there's a bigger chance that he's going to disappoint Louis, and that's terrifying. 

Still. He can't just lose Louis altogether. He doesn't want to.

"Just -- don't be surprised if I fuck something up," Harry mumbles, and he hates how it sounds, hates that it feels like he's not taking accountability for himself, but Louis doesn't hold it against him. Instead, he laughs quietly and squeezes Harry's arm again. 

"Ditto," he says. 

-

The third day, Louis' sisters want to go out for hot cocoa. That involves going outside, out into Holmes Chapel. That risks his parents or sister bumping into him, or someone seeing him and word getting around that he's here again. And he's anxious as all fuck about it, of course he is, but when Louis starts to suggest that maybe they just stay it, Harry intervenes. 

"It's fine, Lou," Harry says quietly, shrugging. "We can go out. Might be fun."

"You sure?"

No, but, "Yeah, come on."

Harry, Lottie and Fizzy drive with Louis while the others drive separately, and the entire ten minute ride Harry listens to Lottie and Fizzy argue halfheartedly about something. He's not even sure what they're talking about anymore, but he likes listening to them talk. All of Louis' siblings talk a lot, and it helps take the attention off of Harry, just a bit. 

At the coffee shop, Louis' sisters sit at one table and Harry, Louis, and Louis' mum sit at another. Dan stayed home with the little twins, so Harry gets the sneaking suspicion that this is how Jay wanted it to be; just the three of them talking, catching up, and Harry hates that because it feels like there's nothing to catch her up on. 

After they sit down with their hot cocoas, Jay immediately asks him about university, and Harry steels himself for this conversation. It's hard, talking about that failure. Everybody goes to university, and those who don't usually don't drop out because their brain is broken. 

The question in itself is annoying, because he knows that Louis' already told his mum that he dropped out, he must’ve. So she's pretending like she doesn't know something that Harry knows she knows, and he doesn't like that all too much. 

Louis looks anxious as Harry responds. 

"I dropped out in my second year," he says. He strengthens his hold on the cup so the warmth burns his hand.

She doesn't react very much, so Harry knows for certain now that she already knew that. "Any plans of going back?"

Harry shakes his head. "No. Not really. Not anytime soon, anyway."

"Why not?" she asks, and Harry looks down. _Because the same exact thing would happen: I'd get too stressed, and I wouldn't know how to handle it, and I'd mess everything up again._ He can't take that failure twice, and he won't put himself through that. 

He fakes a smile. "I just don't think it was a good fit for me. And besides, like. I wouldn't know what to study this time around, anyway."

She's going to ask another question, he can see it, and he's so goddamn thankful that Louis launches into a story about uni and doesn't shut up about it until they get back into the car. Harry's in love with the way Louis can read him so well and how he knows what he needs most of the time. Maybe it's selfish to think -- half the time, he has no idea what Louis is thinking -- but he doesn't care. 

When they get back home, Louis and Harry hide away in Louis' room again, and they talk about absolutely nothing for almost two hours. Louis’ the first to want to fall asleep, and he’s hesitant about the way he hooks his arm around Harry’s middle, pulling him close. Cuddling, like that used to at Harry’s flat. It feels nice, and the warmth Louis’ body gives him helps him fall asleep.

-

That night, Harry wakes up at 1:01 in the morning. He smiles to himself in the dark as he rolls over to his side to face Louis. Even though they fell asleep cuddling, they drifted apart throughout the night because Louis’ room gets hot after a while.

"Lou," he whispers.

Louis doesn't move, so he says his name again, and then Louis makes a noise that sounds like he's at least a little awake. "What?" he says, voice croaky. He makes a whining noise and shoves his face in the pillow, and Harry laughs quietly, scooting closer to him. 

"Happy birthday," Harry says, and, as a response, Louis makes a grunting noise. Harry smiles softly at him before turning back on his other side, and his smiles even wider when Louis tosses his arm over Harry's middle and pulls him closer again. 

-

For Louis' birthday/Christmas Eve, everybody is in an excited mood, and they're loud and happy and the little twins squeal happily at everything. Harry forces himself not to get overwhelmed by it. It's kind of hard, but he's trying really hard to just focus solely on Louis, and it seems to be working. 

At noon, when Louis turns around and bumps into Harry for the second time that morning because Harry's always right there behind him, he asks quietly if he's being too clingy, and Louis presses a kiss to his cheek and tells him that he's fine, and then he squeezes Harry's hip before step-stepping Harry to get to the living room. 

Harry can't remember if that's new, Louis kissing his cheek and squeezing his hip like that, but he at least knows the intimacy it brought is new. He hasn't felt a touch from Louis like that, a touch that charged before. 

For half a second, he convinces himself he's overthinking, and then he glances up and sees Dan, who is at the kitchen table, staring at him, looking surprised. When their eyes meet, Dan immediately glances back down at the newspaper. 

All Harry lets himself think is _huh_ , and then he shoves it to the back of his brain. 

-

Louis and Harry get gloriously drunk around eight, and Harry doesn't realize that Jay is finding too much amusement in it until Harry's too far past the point of return. 

It started off by Jay opening a bottle of wine, and then beers were brought out, and then it kind of fell apart from there. In a good way, though, because him and Louis have too much fucking fun together when they're both drunk in a happy environment, apparently. They keep making stupid jokes that have the other one bursting into laughter. The others watch them, looking entertained, and Harry doesn't even care that he's being so loud and open, and that is why he likes to drink. 

The best part of the night is when everyone sings happy birthday to Louis and Harry forgets how it goes for a second, and Louis laughs so loudly that the rest of his family's voices are drowned out. 

Harry doesn't realize how completely plastered they are until they're working on getting up the stairs, and it proves to be a little bit of a challenge. Louis is having more issues than he is, and Harry has steadying hands on his waist so he doesn't brain himself on the steps on his birthday. Maybe Harry should be embarrassed about getting so wasted, but Louis is just as gone as he is, and he's not the one who instigated the drinking, so he can't find it in himself to be. 

"Your mum did that on purpose," Harry mumbles as they change into their pajamas. Harry actually puts a pair of sweats and a loose shirt on while Louis just strips to his boxers and crawls into bed like that. Harry would too, probably, but he doesn't want Louis seeing the cuts up close, so he's stuck in sweats. "She had, like, one," he groans quietly, "one glass of wine."

Louis shrugs and plops into bed face-first, and Harry laughs and plops right down next to him. They lay on their stomachs side by side for a few minutes, not saying anything, and then Louis moves to lay on his side, facing Harry. Harry does the same, so that they're facing each other. Harry doesn't realize how close they are until he tries to bend his knees so they fit more comfortably on the bed and they bump into Louis' legs. 

Louis' staring at him, and it makes him queasy, even drunk. "I'm drunk," Harry says slowly, and he's not sure why he does.

Louis laughs and nods. "Me too, H."

Harry thinks they're going to go to bed like this, and he's exhausted, and he doesn't have the energy to try and stay awake for much longer. He thinks that this will be a normal night and that they'll wake up with raging hangovers on Christmas morning, ones that they'll bitch about the entire day, even when they've faded, just because. 

And then Louis moves forward and kisses him, and all Harry can think for a moment is, oh. He doesn't really do anything at first, his brain going too slow to keep up with the sudden shift, but after it manages to get up to speed, Harry's kissing him back and it's nice. It's so nice. And kissing anyone is nice, sober but especially drunk, but this -- this is more than that. It's not just nice because he's kissing someone, it's nice because he's kissing _Louis._

God, thinking thoughts is too much right now, so he doesn't. He shuts his head up and just kisses Louis back. If he were less drunk, he'd probably try to make it the best kiss Louis' ever had just because, but he's too tired to do anything impressive. Louis doesn't seem to mind, but then he pulls away, and no, Harry thinks. No, no, no.

He opens his tired eyes to see Louis frowning. "We're drunk," Louis says. "We probably shouldn't -- "

Harry surges forward to kiss him again, and this time he does try to make it a better kiss than before. He bites on Louis' bottom lip softly, earning a quiet gasp from Louis. Harry pulls back, just for a moment, to say, "Don't think we've ever kissed sober before. Why start now?"

And it seems to be a good enough point for Louis, because they're kissing again and it feels so, so good. He wants to do more -- so, so much more -- and he doesn't even know where they would start. But he's also content with just kissing Louis right now, and he's pretty sure that's all that is going to happen tonight, so he kisses him and kisses him until his lips are tingly and undoubtedly dark red and Louis is pushing him away with a fond smile. 

"Go to bed, you goof," Louis mumbles, and for a second Harry fears he's done something wrong, until Louis rests his hand on his cheek and tells him goodnight. He sounds happy, and also drunk, so Harry lets himself fall asleep with Louis' hand on his face without thinking too much about it. 

-

In the morning, he wakes first, and he's terrified of what the kiss is going to mean. Just yesterday they were talking about how they need to start working on their friendship, and Harry's pretty sure making out for however long they laid there isn't what Louis had in mind. He's hungover as fuck, so the thinking is already hard, and after he lays there for twenty minutes, silently panicking about what Louis is going to say to him when he wakes up, he carefully gets out of bed and goes in the shower. 

Harry doesn't completely re-open any of the cuts, but he does poke and prod and scratch over them until they're sore, and once he feels settled enough, he gets out of the shower. 

By the time he's dried off and dressed, Louis is awake and sitting up in his bed, looking sleepy. Harry freezes in the doorway and holds his breath, and like he's not even fazed by what happened last night, Louis looks to him and says, "I'm hungover as fuck."

Right. So they're going to pretend like it didn't happen. Harry can work with that. 

"Me too," he says, walking over to his bag so he can put his dirty laundry away. "The shower helped. Oh, and Happy Christmas."

Louis smiles. "Happy Christmas. Surprised my sisters didn't wake me up by now. It's nearly ten."

Louis goes ahead and showers, and Harry lays back in bed, texting Niall and Liam to wish them a happy holiday and replying to Taylor and Nick's texts. Taylor sent him pictures with her and her mum on their Christmas tree farm, and they make him smile softly to himself. He texts back and forth with her until Louis comes back into his room, and then they head down to the living room to be with Louis' family. 

Harry is watching the younger twins open their presents with probably too much enthusiasm when his sister texts him. Gemma texts him sometimes, just to try to reach out, so it's not exactly new, but it still makes him anxious. He is going to ignore it, but not even five minutes later he gets a text from his mum as well, and panic boils in Harry's stomach as he opens his mum's message first. 

_Happy Christmas baby xx sent you some money in the mail,_ is all it says. Briefly, it makes Harry angry -- they should know better not to text him at the same time, _shit_ \-- but then he realizes that he's being irrational and pushes it down. He manages to convince himself to text her back, just a simple _thank you mum :) have a good day x_. _love you loads._

The panic is at bay now, so he considers not dealing with Gemma's text now since it's not necessary. He ends up opening it anyway, thinking why not, and then his stomach plummets as he reads her text. _Happy holidays. Heard you're in Holmes Chapel. Hope you're planning on stopping at your very pregnant sister's house to say hello._

He bites on his bottom lip hard. If Gemma heard, chances are his parents will hear it one way or another, and Harry's pretty certain his dad wouldn't come to the Tomlinsons to start something -- Harry isn't worth all that trouble in his eyes -- but he wouldn't put it past his mum. 

Louis, who is sitting beside him, nudges his knee with his own. He's frowning and he motions to Harry's phone like _what's the matter_. Harry tilts his screen so Louis can read Gemma's message. Once he does, he wraps an arm around Harry's shoulder and pulls him into his side, and Harry goes willingly. 

He tries to focus on the kids' reactions to their presents and their holiday excitement, but it's difficult with the way guilt is ripping through his heart. He knows they'll get to a day where he regrets ignoring Gemma for all this time, he knows it, but it still doesn't give him the courage or desire to talk to her. And he knows he's taking something out on her that might not be justified, but -- 

Louis squeezes his shoulder, and Harry relaxes slightly. 

-

_so are you just not going to have any part of your niece's life?_

That's what gets to Harry. It's almost time for dinner when he gets that text, and by then, he's convinced himself that it's okay if he continues to shut her out and he's mostly forgotten about it, but that -- her using her unborn daughter against him -- is new, and she's got a point. She's got a completely fair and valid point. 

Harry doesn't want to not know his niece. He wants to watch her grow and be able to be the fun uncle, and he wants to spoil her and play with her and shit, why had he never thought of that before? When Anne told Harry that Gemma was pregnant, he just thought _good for her,_ not _shit, that kid is never going to know me if I don't stop this._

And to make it worse, if Harry doesn't make an attempt to be in that child's life, the kid isn't going to have any family from Gemma's side. It's not like any of them are close to their uncles or aunts or cousins. He's sure their mum will want to be a huge part of her granddaughter's life, but it's going to be a test to see how well that will actually go. Gemma's not going to want her daughter anywhere near their father, and already, that hugely impacts how often their mum will be able to see her. 

He's sitting outside, where he's been for the last fifteen minutes. It's fucking freezing outside; there's a thin sheet of snow on the ground, and all he has to protect him from it all is the one winter coat Louis brought with him. Harry had a few thin coats, but Louis told him he'd freeze in those, so he gave him his jacket. It's a little small, though Harry doesn't mind. 

He told himself he wasn't going to go back inside until he called Gemma, and he's trying to stick to that. 

The last time they spoke to each other was when Harry was in his last year of high school. He remembers it clearly; she had stopped by to say hello because their dad was getting mad that she wasn't visiting enough ever since she moved out, and she was only going to stay for a few minutes. It was the first time Harry saw her in two months, and when she walked through his bedroom door to say hello, anger and betrayal curled hotly in his stomach. 

He was staying home from school for a few days due to a dark black eye and a split lip. His nose was a little bruised as well, but it kind of just looked like he has a stuffy nose or something. And when Gemma saw the state of him, she had the audacity to pretend like she cared, and Harry remembers being so fucking _angry._

"I get you're hurt, Harry, but none of this is my fault," she kept saying after Harry told her to get the fuck out and rejected her hug. 

"It's gotten worse since you left," he snapped, even though he promised himself he would never, ever say that to her face. He didn't want her to have to carry that guilt, but he couldn't help himself. "He fucking hates me, and you leaving just made it worse."

She looked horrified. "That wasn't my intention. I didn't realize that, okay, but I'm sorry. You know if there was anything I could do, I'd do it. You have to know that."

He glared at her. "I had to go to the hospital a few weeks ago, and the doctors were worried I was going to die from, like, a brain bleed or something, I don't even know. My fucking brain was swollen, Gemma."

"I don't know what you want me to say," she whispered, and Harry scoffed and his glare strengthened. 

"He's going to fucking kill me one day, and it's going to be your fault."

She got angry then, told him over and over that that wasn't fair, that he couldn't say things like that to her, that he was being selfish and lashing out at the wrong person. He ignored her, just stared down at his phone as her anger turned to pleas. _Don't let that be the last thing you say to me before I leave,_ she begged, and he continued to ignore her. _Take it back, Harry, please take it back. Don't put that on me._

He continued to ignore her, and he hasn't stopped since. 

But now. . . now he has no choice but to stop this. For his sake and Gemma's sake, probably, but especially for his unborn niece, too. 

He feels lightheaded as he waits for her to pick up. He wasn't ready to make this call, he probably should've waited a few more minutes until he figured out what he wanted to say, but he just went for it and there's no going back now. It takes her four rings to pick up, and when she does, he has his forehead pressed to his kneecap and he's focusing too much on his breathing. 

"Hey, Haz," she says, and immediately, tears leap to his eyes. It's not because of the sound of her voice -- he hasn't forgotten what she sounds like -- but it's just. That's his big sister. 

He inhales sharply. "Hi."

"Happy Christmas, and all that."

"Yeah. You too."

This is too much. He's going to fucking lose it in a few minutes, he's pretty sure, and God, he really wanted a fucking happy Christmas. And no, him calling Gemma doesn't ruin Christmas, not really, it's just -- he didn't want to focus on this today. 

"So are you staying with Louis' family?"

"Um, yeah. Just for a few more days. We're leaving the twenty-eighth."

"And are you going to Mum and Dad's?" she asks. 

Immediately, he feels defensive. "Gemma, don't."

"I was just asking," she says, and she sounds like she means it. "I don't know your plans. I mean, I figured you wouldn't, but I was just checking."

He nods to himself. "Did you, um. Did you visit them for the holidays, then?"

"Yeah. We went out to lunch yesterday. Dad was in a pissy mood the whole time, so it was kind of shit, but."

God, this is too much. He sits up straight, trying to relax his body in the hopes it'll help relax his mind. He takes a few deep breaths and tries to remind himself that his dad being in a bad mood or not doesn't affect him anymore, that he won't be on the receiving end of anything. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement, and when he turns to the back door, he sees Louis standing there, looking hesitant. He looks guilty when Harry catches him, but Harry shakes his head at him and motions for him to come out. Louis' not going to hear anything he doesn't already know, and maybe Louis will make him feel less terrible. 

As he comes outside, Louis gives him a warm smile. He has two blankets in his hands, and he drapes one across Harry's shoulder, and the other blanket that Harry assumes is for Louis is then draped over his lap, and Harry frowns. Louis' going to get cold, too. But Louis cuddles up to his side, and Harry wraps his arm around him, pulling him closer so Louis can share the blankets. 

"You still there?" Gemma asks, just as Louis starts rubbing at Harry's knee soothingly. 

Harry clears his throat and nods. "Yeah. Um, sorry. Does he -- does Dad ever talk about me?"

"All the time," Gemma says. 

Harry's not surprised. Their father gets fixated on certain situations and people, and he sits there and thinks and plots and schemes for _days._ "And he still hates me?" He genuinely doesn't care if the answer is yes or no, he just wants to know. Him being deprived of his father's love never has been an issue for him; he has no desire to make his father proud, or to be loved by a person like him. Just because he's Harry's father doesn't mean that it has to mean anything to Harry. He doesn’t hate his father because he wasn’t loved, he hates his father because he was hated. 

"Yeah. Sorry."

Harry shrugs. "It's fine. Wasn't really expecting a different answer."

She sighs quietly. "Just -- Harry. I don't know if I'd ever go back home, if I were you. Like, I don't know how safe that would be for you."

 _That_ surprises him. It's not like he thought he'd be greeted with a warm welcome, by his dad _or_ his mum, but he didn't think he'd be in danger if he stopped by for a few minutes. It scares him, mostly because that scared little boy that was beaten constantly is still a part of him. He pushes it aside. Tries to, anyway. He had no intention of going back home, even before Gemma said that. 

"Alright," he says. "Noted."

She laughs tightly, even though nothing is funny. It's natural for this to be awkward though, isn't it? He thought their conversation would be more strained than this. If he doesn't think about it too hard, it feels like it's only been a few weeks since they talked last instead of years. 

"Well," she starts. "When can you come over? I live, like, a half hour away from the Tomlinsons. Louis knows where my house is at."

Coming over to her house and seeing her in person is much scarier than talking to her over the phone. He scrubs a hand over his face, and Louis responds to this by squeezing his knee. 

"We can go over to hers anytime," Louis whispers. 

Harry swallows thickly. He kind of was hoping that Louis would tell him that a visit to hers would interfere with other plans, or something. He wants a way out of this. "Um. Maybe -- maybe we could stop by before we leave to go back to London."

"Okay. That's fine."

There's a tone of finality in her voice, and Harry thinks _yes, yes, yes._ He wants this call to be over with. He wants to go back to the warm indoors and eat dinner with Louis' family and then hide away in Louis' blankets. He wants to kiss Louis again. He wants him to stay as close as he is right now. 

But then she says, "And Harry. . . " and he knows he's not off the hook just yet. "I'm going to ask you this now, because I know you and I know you'd rather talk about it over the phone rather than face-to-face, but, um. How have you been with, like. . . With the whole drug thing? When you called me that night in Brighton, I was so scared for you, and -- "

"I'm fine," he interrupts. He doesn't want to hear how scared she was, because he was even more scared and he also feels like she doesn't have a place to ask about this. 

"Are you really? You're not still, like, using?"

He's glad he can tell her no, that he's mostly clean from drugs. He'd feel like even more of a failure if he had to lie to her about this. "I'm not doing anything hard right now, if that's what you're asking."

"What does that even mean?"

"I'm sticking to weed and occasionally some pills," he tells her, feeling like a child. 

"Some pills? What kind of pills? Isn't pill-popping, like, an epidemic in America right now?"

"Just stuff to make me less anxious, alright. Nothing major. Not daily, either. And I don't know anything about America, so."

She sighs quietly. "So you're still dealing with your anxiety, then? I thought you'd grow out of that."

It hits him in the chest at the same time it does Louis. It's like Louis knows that's going to hurt Harry, or maybe that's a statement that anyone suffering from anxiety would be hurt by. Either way, Louis sits up a little and frowns, and when Harry makes a hurt noise close to a scoff, Louis' frown deepens and he starts carding his fingers through the hairs on the back of Harry's neck. 

"Guess not," he forces himself to say. "Still anxious as fuck about everything."

He feels like he's had this exact conversation with Louis. 

"Oh, okay. I mean, that sucks, I'm sorry, but. . . Have you ever thought about seeing someone about it?"

No, he's definitely had this exact conversation with Louis, and he doesn't intend on having it with his sister, not on Christmas and not when he's just started speaking with her again. "I've got to go, Gems. Dinner is done and they're waiting on me. But, like. I'll be there the twenty-eighth, okay? Me and Louis both."

"Okay. I'll see you then."

"Alright, bye." He hangs up and takes a deep breath, and before he can even think about anything, Louis' kissing him. It's gentle and caring, and it reminds him of Taylor’s kisses, like they're trying to suck the sadness out of him, or something less gross than that sounds. He lets himself melt into it, his phone still clutched tightly in his hand, and when Louis pulls away and brushes his finger over Harry's cheekbone, Harry's a little confused. 

That's the first time they've ever kissed sober. 

"Is that something we're doing now?" Harry asks. He's still close to Louis, and when he licks his lips nervously, it feels like he's teasing himself. 

Louis shrugs. "Don't know. Just felt like the right thing to do."

 _No_ , he wants to say. _No, I need clear boundaries. I need to know what is okay and what you want._ He's worked on establishing those. Well, kind of. He knows he needs to, anyway. His boundary with Liam is that they only fuck when they're drunk, and he doesn't really have any boundaries with anybody else, but he's pretty sure he knows that everyone involved knows it's just casual sex. But he doesn't know exactly what Louis thinks, and he doesn't know what he wants Louis to think.

Casual sex would fuck things up between them, he's sure of it. Louis' not like the others. He doesn't know what that means, exactly, but he knows it’s the truth. 

"Okay," Harry says anyway, because he's not sure how to ask what this is when it feels like it's barely anything yet. 

Louis smiles softly at him. "Okay. Let's go eat dinner."

-

Dinner is fine. Nothing happens, except for the usual: everyone tries to talk over everyone else, the little twins get fussy and want to sleep, Dan looks a little stressed, Jay looks like she's living her favorite dream, and Harry sits quietly on the sidelines as an observer, only ever occasionally commenting on things when he really, really wants to. 

Before Louis and Harry head up to bed just after Phoebe and Daisy are sent to their rooms to sleep ("But _Mum_ , it's Christmas and it's only nine-thirty"), they say goodnight and Happy Christmas to everyone again. Harry's almost completely out of the living room when Jay rushes over to give him a hug, and he doesn't know why, if it's because it's Christmas or if it's because of something else, but he accepts it wholeheartedly anyway. Her hugs are always, _always_ the best. 

"Goodnight, love," she says softly to him, and she pinches his cheek gently like he's ten. He doesn't mind it at all.

-

Tonight, Harry's the one to instigate the kissing.

After they got ready for bed and laid down, both of them realized they weren't actually all that tired, so Louis grabbed his laptop and pulled up Netflix. They're watching more episodes of _The Office_ because Louis somehow still hasn't finished it. They're laying closer than what's probably necessary, and that gives Harry the courage to turn his head and kiss Louis. 

It's innocent, at first. Nothing more than a bit of making out. Louis' the one that turns it into something more, into something quicker and rougher. 

Louis grips the back of his neck tightly, pulling him closer, and to make the angle easier -- that's all it is, not because he wants to get closer, not because he wants this so, so badly -- he twists so he's kind of hovering over Louis now, and Louis grips the end of Harry's shirt like he wants it off. At first, Harry thinks it'd be safer just to ignore it, but then Louis gives it a harsher tug, and Harry's had sex before, he knows what that means, so he pulls away and leans back just long enough to pull it off and toss it to the side. He's barely got it off over his head when Louis is surging forward and smashing their lips together again, and shit, Louis' _desperate_. He wants this just as badly as Harry does, and at this point, it doesn't matter what _'this'_ is. 

"Yours too," Harry mumbles, and Louis doesn't wait a second before he's pulling back and quickly taking off his own shirt. Immediately, their hands are on each other's bodies, running over hip bones and belly buttons, brushing over nipples and tattoos, gripping onto wherever they can. It's so -- nice, and that's such a stupid word, but it's all Harry can come up. It's nice. 

And then Louis' fingers tuck themselves into the waistband of Harry's sweats, and again, this isn't Harry's first time, he knows that Louis wants his pants off, but just -- no. No. Harry's not ready for that. He'd let Louis fuck him in an instant, that's not what he's worried about. It's just -- Louis will look at his cuts. He'll really look, and he'll try not to be obvious about it but it'll be obvious anyway, and he'll probably say something about them, and Harry _will not_ let that happen. Not right now. 

So, as a distraction and because he wants to do it anyway, he breathlessly says, "Let me blow you."

Louis makes a noise close to a whine. "Kinda wanted to fuck you, if I'm honest." His eyes are glossy and his pupils are blown wide, and he strengthens his already tight hold on the back of Harry's bicep. 

"But I want to blow you," Harry says, and he realizes they both sound like they've been at it for a while, when in reality it has only been a few minutes. "Want you in my mouth. Promise I'm good at it."

Louis laughs and he bites down on his bottom lip. "Don't doubt that at all. You're a fucking amazing kisser."

Harry hates that he feels so goddamn smug about that, about all of it, but he can't help it. He smirks a little and leans down to nibble gently at Louis' jaw. "Let me," he says. "Please," he adds, only because he's got a feeling that Louis might like to hear him beg a little.

Louis must actually be into the idea of Harry going down on him, because he doesn't protest or look like he even wants to. He starts to wriggle off his bottoms and Harry moves off to the side so he can do it easier, and then -- and then Louis' dick out, and obviously he knew that was the objective, it's just. That's Louis' dick. Louis'. Just, right there, out in the open, waiting for Harry to suck it, and God, yes, Harry wants to do that. 

Harry doesn't waste any time on getting his mouth on Louis, and judging by the way Louis is already almost completely hard and the loud gasp he lets out, he's not going to last long. It's alright, Harry's never been a huge fan of the way his jaw aches after he blows someone. He doesn't take Louis entirely in his mouth at first, but once he does and Harry's relaxing his throat around Louis' cock, allowing him in, Louis seems surprised and annoyed all at once. 

"Of course you can fucking deepthroat, shit," he says breathlessly, quietly, and right, his family -- his baby sisters -- are in the other room; they have to be _very_ quiet. He puts his hand in Harry's hair and then he seems to kind of hesitate, and Harry makes a noise he hopes sounds affirmative around Louis' cock. "You sure?" Louis asks, and Harry nods slightly, a nonverbal _yes, Lou, you can fuck my throat._

Louis falls apart quite quickly, and Harry smugly wonders how often Louis is having sex and how good any of it actually is. Harry's not saying he's some sort of sex god, but. He has had his fair share of sex, and Louis isn't the first guy he's gotten this worked up over his mouth. 

After he comes, Louis props himself up on his elbows and gives Harry a look. "Sorry for coming so fast," he says, "but you can't expect me too last long when you do shit like that."

Harry gives him a sweet, innocent smile, one that makes Louis roll his eyes. He pulls him closer, and Harry goes willingly, and then Louis' hand is sliding down his belly. "Can I?" he asks, and Harry nods wordlessly.

But then Louis' hand slides even lower, and Harry can't help but say, "Just -- just, like. I want to get my sweats on. If that's okay."

"Course it is," Louis says easily, like it's something everyone would say, like he doesn't know the reason why Harry's asking him that. He presses a hard, quick to Harry's lips before sliding his hand down into Harry's boxers, and shit, _shit._ Harry sets his head on Louis' shoulder as he tugs him off, and when he comes, he comes mostly into Louis' hand and with his teeth digging into Louis' shoulder. 

As he half-sits, half-slumps against Louis, coming down from the rush of his orgasm, he thinks briefly that if things are going to get weird because of this, they're going to get weird now. And he's scared for a moment, terrified that Louis will push him away or say it was a mistake or ask him why he wanted to keep his sweats on, that something, _anything_ , is going to go wrong. 

Before Louis gets up to go wash his hands in the bathroom, he presses a tiny kiss on the corner of Harry's jaw. He doesn't say anything, though, so as much as the little kiss acted as a silent affirmation, Harry's still nervous that something bad is going to come of this. He quickly stands so he can take off his underwear that has a little come on them and pulls his sweats back on before putting the underwear away in his bag. He settles back down on the bed, on his side, and as he listens to the running water from Louis' bathroom, Harry pulls the blankets over him and tries not to overthink anything too much. 

Harry might have started the kissing, but he didn't take it to the next level; that was Louis. So if Louis' upset about what just happened, then he has himself to blame, too. 

Louis comes back about a minute later, and he smiles softly at Harry as he shuts his laptop and puts it on the table. He crawls back into bed, and Harry pointedly doesn't look at him. If there's any hesitation on Louis' face, he doesn't want to see it. 

And then Louis is crowding around him, putting his head on Harry's chest and throwing a leg over Harry's. From how Louis is leaning against him, the weight of his leg is putting uncomfortable pressure on Harry's cuts that are still aggravated from this morning. He doesn't say anything because he doesn't want Louis to feel bad, and because it's nice to have that to focus on. 

-

Harry can't sleep for shit. He fell asleep for about two hours, and then he woke up and stared at the ceiling for a little while until he fell asleep for another half hour. It's been like that all night; starts and stops of sleep, and by the time that it's six o'clock in the morning, he gives up on trying to sleep anymore. At this rate, there's no point.

He should've taken a sleeping pill before he went to bed, but he's reluctant to take those anymore. A while back, he went to get his prescription refilled and the pharmacist told him that he can't get more until he saw his doctor again. For a few months, Harry avoided it and just took whatever pills Nick gave him to help him sleep, but then Nick told him to just go see his doctor. So, eventually, Harry did, and it was awkward and Harry felt flustered the entire time -- _it's just sleeping pills_ , he kept trying to tell himself. He did get a new prescription, but now using them makes him anxious; if he gets through a bottle of pills, he has to go get another one, and he's dreading the day the pharmacist tells him that he has to go see his doctor yet again. 

Right now, he's itching for the weed that's in his bag, but there's no way he could discreetly use it, so he tries to push that desire to the back of his mind. 

Louis rolled over away from Harry around two, so he doesn't have to worry about waking him up if he moves around a little. He grabs his phone off the nightstand and texts Taylor to see if she's awake, and then Niall and then Nick. As he waits for any one of them to respond, he fucks around on Twitter for a little while. 

Nick's the only one to respond, and it's a half hour later. _Can't talk right now,_ it says, _but call me later ? Miss your stupid face. Think I might be ill or something._

Around seven thirty, he hears quiet movements coming from what he thinks is the kitchen. It's probably Jay or Dan, and Harry doesn't want to particularly talk to either of them, as selfish and ungrateful as that probably sounds. So he stays in bed, alternating between his phone and starting at the wall until about eight until he can't stand it anymore.

Harry scoots over so he's behind Louis, yet not touching him. He doesn't know if he should wake him up; Louis' finally had some time off from work, he should be getting some good sleep. But he's been sleeping for, like, ten hours and Harry's _bored_ , so he lets the selfish side of him win and he wraps his arms around Louis' middle, pulling his back to his chest. Louis stirs, and he's at least halfway awake, so Harry waits him out a few minutes. 

As Harry had hoped, after about two minutes, Louis shifts in Harry's arms so he's on his back. He keeps his eyes closed for about another minute before opening them, and he still looks tired. 

"Hi," Harry says. He sets his cheek on Louis' shoulder and Louis makes a grunting noise that vaguely resembles _hi._

As Louis wakes up, Harry doesn't bother him too much. He lays there next to him, waiting for him to have the energy to move. Maybe they'll watch something on Louis' laptop, or maybe they'll go downstairs, or maybe they'll lay here in bed for a little while longer. Harry doesn't care; he just doesn't want to be alone anymore. 

After a little while, Louis sits up, gently moving Harry out of the way. He checks his phone and Harry resists the urge to wrap his arms around his waist in fear of looking clingy, so he instead patiently waits for attention until Louis is willing to give it to him. 

He rolls his eyes at himself, although he's not exactly ashamed of it. Maybe he is clingy. Maybe he does have an issue with needing attention. But he doesn't want to blame himself for that right now.

After about another minute or two, Louis turns to him. He looks a little more awake and happy to see Harry. He presses a kiss to Harry's lips, and it's tender and soft and short, so fleeting, and as Louis pulls away, Harry wants desperately to grab him and frantically say, _Please, please, tell me what this is so I at least have a chance of not screwing it up. Please, please just tell me what this is, what you want from me._ He doesn't, because it's easier if he doesn't. Because if he does, he's scared he'll scare off Louis. 

Still, it makes anxiety claw at his heart, and he stares up at Louis with wide, nervous eyes. 

"You look tired," Louis says. "Did you sleep well?"

Harry shakes his head. 

Louis frowns. "Why not? You've not been having trouble sleeping in here, have you? Because if you are -- "

"It was just last night," Harry interrupts. "Don't know why."

"And your sleeping pills? Are they not working anymore?"

"I don't take them every night. And, like. I don't want to have to go to the doctors to get a new prescription, so I'm using them sparingly."

Louis' frown deepens and he sets his hand on Harry's forearm, starts to run his fingers across his skin. _What is this_ , Harry wants to shout. "But you have them to help you, H. Let them help you."

"It was one night of crap sleep. It's fine." 

Louis doesn't seem to agree -- everything seems like a bigger deal to Louis than it does Harry when it comes to Harry's mental health, and Harry doesn't know if that's because Louis is overly protective of him or because there's something to legitimately be concerned over -- but he lets it go anyway. 

"We can just relax today, then," he says. "I don't mind."

Harry nods. "Okay."

And then Louis kisses him again, and Harry kisses him back, doesn't even consider not to, but he can't take this much longer. He's never been one to demand labels, but shit. He needs to hear Louis say if this is friends with benefits or something more than that. If it's the latter, Harry needs to know that. He wants to know that. He wants to know what exactly Louis means by the way he cradles Harry's hip as he kisses him so, so gently. Why is he being so gentle with him? Is it because he thinks Harry needs delicacy, that he can't handle rougher, or because he thinks Harry is someone that deserves to be kissed like this?

Harry feels nauseous when Louis pulls away again and says that he's going to take a shower. He doesn't know if he's supposed to join or not, if Louis is expecting him to follow, but he does know that he doesn't want to be completely naked in front of Louis yet, for more reasons than the cuts. 

He works himself up into a bit of frenzy while Louis' in the shower, but some of his uncertainty is diminished when Louis comes back out and he doesn't seem disappointed that Harry didn't join him. It comes back even harder about twenty minutes later, though, when he and Louis go downstairs to the empty kitchen -- both Jay and Dan are at work, Louis tells him -- and Louis wraps his arm around Harry's waist and gives him a warm smile as Harry makes them french toast. 

"What are we doing?" he rushes out, staring down at the pan. He tries to remind himself that he's not being unreasonable; he just wants to know why Louis went from being close to being all over him. He wants to know what this means, for him and for them, and he doesn't think that's too much to ask. Is it? 

God, he's still so nauseous. 

"I don't know," Louis says quietly. 

"Well, I need to know," Harry tells him. It comes out meaner than he intends for it, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. "Is this, like. A casual thing, or, like. . . something else?"

"Something else?" Louis asks, confused. 

"Something bigger," Harry clarifies. "Something that means something."

It's quiet for too long. Harry keeps staring at the pan until he has to flip the toast, and as he grabs the spatula, his hand shakes. He doesn’t know why this is getting to him so much, and he doesn't know what he wants the answer to be, and God, isn't that scary?

"Can we maybe just keep doing what we're doing until we get back to London?" Louis answers finally. "And then. . . and then when we get home, we just see what happens? Because knowing you, you'll ghost me as soon as we get back."

That shouldn't hurt as much as it does. It's the way he phrased it, though; _knowing you._ Like Harry's known for fucking things up. Like Louis can't expect him to do anything right. 

"I won't do that to you again," Harry says. His voice is weak, because he knows he can't promise that. He knows that even if he thinks now that he won't do that, he could very likely turn right around and do the exact thing he said he wouldn't do. 

"Let's just see," Louis says gently. "Let's just wait and see."

-

Harry takes a shower that afternoon because his head is somewhere else and he doesn't know how to stop it, how to get back to reality. It's not even like he's feeling that bad, mentally, aside from being overly anxious. He doesn't really feel depressed, or like he's about to enter a few weeks of a depressive episode or something; he's just all over the place, and the only place he wants to be is right here, in Holmes Chapel, with Louis. 

In the shower, he scratches at his skin until it's raw and throbbing and threatening to leak blood. It doesn't make him feel any better, is the problem, and this was his fear: that he'd want to cut, would need to, and he wouldn't have anything to indulge the feeling with. There's a difference between him making the decision of grabbing his blade and going to the bathroom to cut and feeling like he absolutely needs to, and right now he feels like if he doesn't he might explode with the turmoil inside of him. 

He tries digging his nails in his palms to reach that level of hurt he needs right now, but his nails aren't long enough, don't reach deep enough. And he's spiraling right now, he is fully and completely aware of that, but he can't stop it. 

When dark spots begin to dance around his vision and he's pretty sure a huge panic attack is going to come crashing into him hard if he doesn't catch up to it, he steps out of the shower to grab his bag of weed. He grabs the lighter inside of the bag and puts the rest away, and he's never done this before, never burned his skin intentionally like this, but he needs something, _anything_ , and he doesn't know what else to do. 

(And this is when he really starts to scare himself. Moments like this, when he feels okay and then suddenly he's hounded with hurt and pain and blinded with the need to make it physical -- he truly doesn't know what to do with himself after times like these.)

His hands are shaking as he flicks the lighter, so it takes him a few tries to get the flame. It ends up going out when he sits down against the tub's ledge and he has to get it back, and once he does, he doesn't even think about it as he brings it to the scarred over part of the side of his thigh. He's not entirely stupid; he's not going to do it on healing cuts. 

The pain is instant and bright, and Harry can't fight the way he instinctively pulls away from it. The flame just barely grazing his skin isn't enough for what he needs, though, so he goes back to it, this time willing himself to stand it a bit longer. 

He does that over and over and over again until a decently sized section of his thigh is bright red and close to blistering and he's too lightheaded from the pain to stand. He stays there, hunched over on the tub's ledge, trying to allow his brain to work itself out as he stands on the sidelines. His hands are shaking, properly trembling, and he starts to cry. Pathetic little sniffles escape from him. He tries to wipe the tears, but seeing the way his hands shake so badly makes him even more scared so he stops. He just sits there, long enough for him the pain to dull as much as it will. 

He's sure he's going to throw up when he stands, but the feeling passes soon enough. He's probably been in here for a little over fifteen minutes already, so he works quickly to run cool water over the irritated area (God, it's hard to look at). It hurts like a son of a bitch, and again, he's sure he's going to vomit, and then he doesn't. 

After turning off the water, he gets his change of clothes out of the bag and puts the lighter away. He puts on his sweatshirt so he feels less exposed, dries off the floor, and then goes to Louis' cabinet to grab a few band-aids and maybe some ointment if Louis has some. He doesn't know the proper method of cleaning burns. He's trying to just use his common sense. 

He almost breaks down into another fit of tears when he sees that Louis' bathroom cabinet is almost entirely empty, aside from a few toilet paper rolls and cleaning supplies. He needs to bandage the area; his pants will irritate it further, and he doesn't want it to get infected, and shit, why didn't he check if there were band-aids before? There is another bathroom downstairs, but it's in between the older girls' bedrooms and Louis parents' room, and he hasn't used it once the entire time he's been here. If Jay or Louis sees him in there, he fears they’ll be smart enough to figure out why. And he doesn't want to make the younger girls uncomfortable by going into their bathroom -- they're young and he's a practical stranger to them. They seem to think he’s nice enough, but still. Going in their bathroom and digging around their cabinets feels like a huge invasion of privacy. 

So he pulls his loosest pair of sweats on without a barrier between them and his wound, and he leaves the bathroom and heads straight for Louis' bed. He lays on his uninjured side and pulls the blankets all the way over his shoulder, and he lays there for a few minutes, feeling stupidly nauseous and lightheaded. He's pretty sure he won't be able to bring himself to do that again, even if it did manage to achieve the pain he was aching for. 

Louis' downstairs with his sisters watching movies, and Harry's supposed to be with them, but he doesn't care about that right now. At all. He feels completely drained and so. . . he doesn't even know. But he doesn't want to go back downstairs, so he grabs his phone and calls Taylor and hopes to God she picks up because he's scared of himself right now and he doesn't want to think about it. 

(Just yesterday, he was having a good day. He was happy. And so what if he got anxious this morning and didn't get enough sleep; is that really all it takes for him to bring open flame to his skin? Is he really that far passed the point of self-control? If he is, he's pretty sure there's no way back from here.)

She answers, thank fucking God. "Hello," she says happily. She's always so fucking happy. He hates that he can't have that. 

"Hey." His voice is rough and shaky, and his thigh is throbbing painfully, and she's going to be able to tell that something is wrong. 

"Is everything okay? You don't sound so good."

He takes a deep breath. "Can you just talk to me? About anything. I just need -- I just need someone to talk to me."

The first time he called her with a request like that, she was scared he was planning on doing something permanent, that he was going to her as a last ditch effort at life, and no matter how many times he told her that it wasn't like that, she came over to Nick's house and didn't leave his side for almost two days. Called off of work and everything. Now, she knows that what he's asking is all he's asking. There's no hidden agendas behind it; he just needs someone to distract him. 

So she does. She talks about her brother and her parents and Tennessee, and he listens to her with his eyes closed and feels like he's going to throw up again. Her voice gains strength as she continues, like she was wary at first but then felt better about it, and the grip Harry has on the blanket loosens over their twenty minute conversation. 

She comes to a natural end -- she's talkative, but even she can only talk for so long -- and tentatively, she asks, "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah," he says, and it's the truth. Physically, he still feels terrible, but his brain feels quieter. "Thanks. Sorry."

"What happened?"

He can't tell her that he burned himself with the lighter she put in his bag, so he lies and says that he had a panic attack over nothing and that Louis was out at the shops. 

"Oh," she says. "Well, I'm glad you called me."

He lets her go a few minutes later. By now, he still doesn't feel good enough to go back downstairs. He does get up to go to the bathroom and check on the burns, hoping they look any better, and they don't. He goes through Louis' cabinet again and there's still nothing, so he goes back to bed and just lays there, practicing deep breaths and keeping his mind carefully blank, for about another half hour until Louis comes upstairs to his room. 

Harry's surprised it took this long for him to check on him. 

He manages to keep a front on for a little while: he's just tired and is planning on taking a small nap. Nothing's wrong. Louis buys it easily, and then he asks if he can lay with him for a little while, and Harry says yes because it's his bed and he doesn't hate the idea of not being alone right now. 

Everything's fine for a little while longer. Louis' on his laptop doing something and Harry's actually trying to fall asleep. However long it is later, Louis puts away his laptop and comes up behind Harry to cuddle him from behind. And Harry tenses, but nothing's wrong until Louis goes to lay his leg over Harry's like he did last night, and Harry immediately is hit with a nauseating rush of pain. 

He gasps quietly, breathlessly, and his eyes fly open as he reaches down to push Louis' leg off of him. As the wound tries to settle down again, hissing and clawing with hurt, Harry clenches his teeth together and he keeps thinking to himself that he can still save this, that he can just say he still has some healing cuts, but he knows that lie isn't going work because he's in pain and he can't hide it.

"Shit," Louis says instantly, sitting up. He looks guilty, and when he sees Harry's face and that guilt morphs to genuine concern. "You look really pale, love." He grabs Harry's chin gently, and now he can see the tears welling in Harry's eyes if he couldn't already. 

Harry's throat is all tight and hot and he probably shouldn't say anything, but he chokes out, "It hurts." He takes a deep breath and wipes at his forehead. "I'm sorry, it just -- it hurts."

"You're shaking like a fucking leaf," Louis says, and he sounds hurt and confused and worried, but not angry. He grabs Harry's hand in his own and yeah, he is shaking. Pretty badly, too. Nerves plus pain leads to shaky hands, and it becomes even more evident how hard his hand is shaking when Louis envelops it in both of his own steady hands. "What did you do, Harry?" Now he sounds disappointed. "I thought you said you didn't bring anything to hurt yourself with."

And he cannot take being reprimanded right now, so he shakes his head and looks away. 

"Did you do in the shower? Is that why you were up here for so long?"

"Louis," Harry pleads. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't -- I wasn't going to do that here, but I -- I'm sorry." He chokes on a sob, a loud one, and Louis shushes him. 

"Don't feel guilty," Louis whispers. "Not because of me."

"I need a band-aid," Harry says, instead of anything more useful. "There was nothing in your cabinet, and I -- it hurts, and I -- "

"I'll get you one, Haz, but I need you to try and relax a little for me." Louis smiles down at him, and even though it's shaky and unsteady, it's still a smile. He squeezes Harry's hand. "You're kind of freaking me out."

And Harry tries to say something that could provide a little comfort to Louis in this, but he can't think of anything, and then he lets out another cry. He just feels so fucking stupid. And scared. He didn't want to do this here, and he didn't want to let Louis in this much about this, and he has a fucking mark burned onto his thigh because his brain decided it was going to cave in on itself and it's the only way he knows how to stop it. He doesn't know how it's going to heal, or what it's going to look like afterwards, and at this point, it shouldn’t matter. His thighs are already a complete fucking mess; he shouldn't care about an inch or two of lighter marks, but he fucking does anyway. 

Louis hugs him tightly, and he keeps telling him that everything's okay, that he's allowed to slip up, that he hasn't disappointed anyone and a bunch of other stupid, meaningless shit that Harry doesn't deserve to hear right now. 

Eventually, after Harry manages to get himself together, Louis leaves to grab him the first-aid kit. It makes Harry roll his eyes, but then he realizes that that's probably the thing he needs right now, so he grabs it from him and goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

He dabs some ointment on it, and it makes him queasy, the cold contrasting his hot skin. He forces himself to put it on anyway, and then he uses three band-aids to cover it. He supposes that all he can do, really. 

Louis' sitting on the edge of the bed, tapping his foot nervously, when Harry gets out, and he looks awfully serious. "Please give it to me," Louis says, desperately and sternly all at once. "Please. I don't want this to happen again. We've been having a good time here, and I don't want a repeat of this."

Harry tries to figure out what he should do. If he tells Louis there's no blade, Louis' not going to believe him. If he tells him what he actually did, Louis might actually flip the fuck out and cause a scene. And there's not really a third option, is there, so Harry forces himself to walk over to his bag and rummage through it, trying to think it through as Louis watches him. 

Well, he's already made himself look guilty by going inside his bag, so he figures he might as well just tell the truth. He wordlessly grabs the lighter, and when he puts it in Louis' hand and Louis sees what it is, Louis looks impossibly angry. 

"God, Harry," he seethes, curling his fingers around the lighter. Harry just stands there, knowing that nothing he can say will help anything. "I didn't know you did that. I -- fucking hell." He looks away, jaw clenched. 

"I don't," Harry tells him quietly. "I haven't done it before."

Louis looks back at him, worry and anger swirling around his eyes. "Then how do you even know how severe of a burn it is, Harry? How do you know if you need medical treatment or not?"

"I don't need that," he says quickly, and Louis shakes his head. 

"Why, because you don't want it? That's not how it works."

Panic clutches at Harry's heart, and he tries desperately to knock any ideas of Louis taking him to the doctors out of his head. "I'm trusting you with this," he reminds frantically. "I'm being honest with you, okay, so don't threaten me with doctors."

"Don't manipulate me into feeling bad about being concerned," Louis snaps back. He sighs loudly and shakes his head, looking down at the ground. He takes a deep breath or two before saying, "I really would like it if you let me take a look at it."

"No." 

"Harry -- "

"I will not let you look at it, Louis, no."

"How are you supposed to know if it's serious or not then?" Louis asks, looking at Harry like he's mad. 

Harry scoffs. "I guess I'll find out in a few days, won't I."

"This isn't a joke," Louis says, standing up. "This is serious, Harry. Hurting yourself is a very serious thing, and I think you've become, like, desensitized to it, but -- "

"You're not a fucking therapist. Don't patronize me."

That seems to really tic Louis off, and Harry didn't mean to, he really didn't, but he doesn't want to talk about this and he wants to pretend like it didn't happen, and Louis acting like Harry doesn't know how big of a deal it is is just ignorant and unnecessary right now. 

"Please don't yell," Harry says quickly, because Louis looks like he's about to properly lose it on Harry in a few seconds. "I know that I shouldn't do it. I know that it's serious. Of course I know that. I'm the one who feels the pain, okay? I know that it isn't something to mess around with."

"But you sat in my bathroom and burned yourself with a lighter anyway."

Harry glares at him. "I am also aware of the fact that I don't have it under control anymore, alright? I think I understand it a lot fucking more than you do, so if you could just back the fuck off about this, I'd really appreciate it. The only reason I did in the first place is because I was stressed about this morning, about last night, and I just lost it, okay?"

Louis looks heartbroken, and Harry is quick to shake his head. "I'm not blaming you at all," Harry rushes out. "I'm not. I swear. I know it's my issue. I know it's my fault that I struggle to cope with things normally. I'm just -- " he inhales quietly. "I get defensive about this. And I'm stressed about what I did today. I don't mean to jump down your throat, but, like."

"You don't want me talking about it and all I do is talk about it," Louis fills in for him, and Harry nods. 

Neither of them say anything for a long minute. Harry fumbles with his fingers as he looks down at the ground, waiting for Louis to make the next move. Eventually, Louis sighs and it makes Harry look up. He's staring at Harry with a defeated expression. 

"I'll leave it alone," he says, even though Harry can tell he really, really doesn't want to. "But I'm gonna say it again: I would really like it if you just let me take a look at it. If you're worried about me being grossed out or something, well. I work at an ER. I guarantee you I've seen much, much worse. And if you think I'd judge you, or something, I don't know what else to say besides I won't."

Harry doesn't even consider his offer; he's already struggling with the idea of Louis seeing his scars and cuts, there's no way he'd feel comfortable with allowing him to see the burn. Still, though. He doesn't want Louis feeling all out of shape about this, so he says, "If I think it's not healing properly, I'll let you see it."

Louis doesn't seem to think that's a fair compromise, but he doesn't press it. He just chews on his bottom lip and lets out another sigh. "Okay. Fine. But if it -- if it starts to swell or ooze, or if your skin gets hot, or if you get a fever, please do not hesitate to seek medical treatment, whether it be from me or someone else that knows what they're doing. And you have to pay attention to how it's healing."

Louis being worried about it makes Harry even more anxious but he tries to push that down as much as he can. He doesn't want this to be the only thing they talk about for the next few days. He's so mad at himself for doing this to them. "Okay. I will. Promise."

"And don't purposely irritate it further," Louis says sternly, like that's something Harry would actually do, and since it is, Harry doesn't get angry. A bubble of defense rises in his throat, but he doesn't let it pop because Louis' not wrong. 

"I won't."

Louis gives him a look like he doesn't believe him, and Harry bites down on his tongue. God, he's fucked up. Louis' probably not going to want to touch him anymore, not going to want to kiss him now. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says. "And you can't tell your mum about this."

"I wouldn't," Louis tells him, and Harry's initial reaction is to think he's lying, but judging by his serious expression, he thinks maybe he's telling the truth. "Not now, not ever. Promise."

They leave the conversation at that, and then they go downstairs and join Louis' siblings on the sofas. The lighter is in Louis' pocket, and it's all Harry can think about as the movie plays. He's pretty sure it's almost over, anyway. 

He's right. The movie is over within twenty minutes, and almost all of Louis' siblings disperse. The only ones that stick around are Ernie and Doris, and Louis makes a disgruntled sound like he doesn't feel like looking after them right now. He lets Doris crawl up on his lap anyway, and he's smiling. Harry's sitting next to them quietly, not saying or doing anything. Louis isn't even looking at him, so he's pretty sure he's not off the hook yet for what he did, and he doesn't want to push it any further by saying something that might irritate Louis more. 

Ernie is playing with his toys on the floor a few feet away from them, and Harry watches him because he has nothing else to do. He has this quiet energy around him that none of Louis' other siblings do. It's kind of endearing, watching him being so content with not having any attention on him. He just wants to play with the ball he's rolling around by himself, and that's it. 

At one point, Ernie glances over and sees Harry looking at him. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Harry, and then Ernie crawls a few feet with his ball in his hand so he's sitting directly in front of Harry, only a couple of feet away. Harry doesn't quite know what his agenda is until he softly rolls the ball over to Harry, and as it knocks against Harry's feet, he smiles gently. 

He lowers himself to the floor so he can roll the ball back to Ernie easier, and as he does, the wound on his thigh makes it known that it doesn't like that. He ignores it as best as he can, which becomes easier to do when he rolls the ball back to Ernie and Ernie gives him a toothy grin as he stops the ball with his hands. 

-

Louis' not actually mad at him, Harry figures out. 

A little broken hearted, yes. Shocked, certainly. Disappointed, probably, even though he keeps telling Harry that he's not. And that's all okay, all of that Harry can handle. The only thing he couldn't handle is anger. 

Louis doesn't really touch him at all for the rest of the afternoon, and part of Harry wants to believe that's because his family is around and he doesn't want to do anything touchy in front of them, but a different part of him, a bigger part. can't help but believe that it's because Louis doesn't want to touch Harry anymore, not after finding out just how deep Harry's scars go. 

So later on, when Louis comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, hugging him tightly from behind, as Harry digs through his bag to find a pair of clean socks and to find his sleeping pills, Harry tears up and his hand immediately goes up to clutch at Louis'. 

When they lay in bed, Louis lays beside him like normal, except this time, he doesn't put his legs over Harry's. Neither of them comment on it, and neither of them start any kissing tonight. It's okay, though, because Louis' still here, still right up behind him, holding him tightly. 

-

The following day, things pretty much go back to normal. There are only a few times when what Harry did yesterday is directly acknowledged. 

The first time is before Harry's about to shower and Louis looks hesitant about it. He doesn't tell Harry that he can't shower, because that'd be fucking insane, but he does seem incredibly distrustful towards it. 

"I'm not going to do anything," Harry says, probably for the fourth time. "I swear. And even if I wanted to, I literally don't have anything to do it with, so."

Louis' concern doesn't waver. "Just try to be careful with it. Don't irritate it in any way, okay? Not by washing it or having the water too hot or cold or by touching it." He looks angry. "Don't touch it."

"I _won't_ ," Harry snaps, and then he goes in the shower and does exactly what he said he wouldn't. He doesn't touch it directly; at least, he doesn't touch the main part of the wound. He just prods at the skin around it, like you do when you are trying not to itch a mosquito bite. It's the same thing. It doesn't even hurt that much. 

The second time it's mentioned is after Harry gets out of the shower, and Harry doesn't let Louis say anything much about it before he snaps at him that he needs to just drop it, and Louis does. 

The only time after that is just after lunch, when Louis and Harry are doing the dishes together and Louis asks softly how it looks. 

Harry doesn't get angry and focuses on the plate he's rinsing off. "It looks fine. To me, anyway."

"Could you -- can you please just tell me what it looks like?"

"It's just really red,” Harry mumbles. “I don't know."

"Is there any blistering?"

Harry shakes his head. Not that much, anyway. Nothing that looks too bad or concerning. And even if it did, he doesn’t think he’d let Louis see it. 

"Okay," Louis breathes out, and he sounds relieved. He squeezes Harry's shoulder. "Okay. I'll drop it."

Later on, Louis and Harry take Cleo out on a walk around the block a few times. Harry's worried that this is Louis' way of cornering him to talk about something he knows Harry won't want to talk about, but it isn't; they talk about normal things, like work and friends and London.

"We'll leave here around eight tomorrow morning," Louis says, after a minute or two of quiet. "We'll get to Gemma's by eight-thirty, and it doesn't matter to me how long we stay there."

Harry nods. "Okay."

On the fourth time around the block, Cleo is panting heavily and Louis says they should probably go back home. They're about halfway around the block at that point, and the rest of the way back, Louis talks about how he doesn't want to go back to work and how badly he wants to stay right here, at home, with Harry. He says it in a way that feels like he's thinking out loud and being honest, and not like he's saying it to make Harry feel better, and it makes Harry feel loved. 

He wants to stay here with Louis, too. 

-

The rest of the day, Harry finds himself trying to cling onto his time here; he talks to everyone more than he has this entire time, and he tries to look more interested in conversations that don't involve him in any way and that he's barely a part of. He plays with Ernie a bit more, just rolling the ball back and forth again. Eventually Doris joins in and it gets a little more rough because instead of rolling the ball, she likes to throw it, but Louis sees this and sits with Doris and encourages her to roll it every time it comes to her. 

At dinner, he wants to try and talk to everyone a bit more, but everyone's too loud and conversation topics switch too soon and he finds himself getting overwhelmed with it, so he settles for just listening, and the stress slowly fades away. They're the type of family that's easy to watch; they're entertaining, and they're happy, and Harry's long past the point of grossly envying families that look nothing like his own, but right now, watching them all, he can't help but feel a little cheated. 

If he would have grown up in a house like this, with a family like theirs, if he was actually part of their family instead of just pretending like he was as a kid, his body would most likely be clear of any scars and his brain would be scrubbed clean from all the darkness that's painted on his skull. He wouldn't be promised that his anxiety and depression would be gone, or any less forgiving, but he's certain that Jay would have put his arse in therapy the minute he displayed any symptoms, even if that meant she had to work even harder than she already was. 

Like every other night, Louis and Harry get up to go to Louis’ room just after Phoebe and Daisy are ushered to bed. They're near the staircase when Jay comes up behind them and asks to speak to Harry, and immediately, Harry freezes and his gut twists. He looks at Louis pleadingly, _don't make me have to talk to her alone_ , but Jay is insistent that she wants it to just be the two of them and Harry has no choice but to follow her to the kitchen, which is now cleared of anyone else. 

They sit down, Jay sitting across from Harry, and Harry waits for her to say or ask or do whatever it is she wants to. She does, after a few more seconds of silence. 

"Are you doing anything fun when you get back to London?"

His first instinct is to scoff -- that's not what she really wants to talk about, and he doesn't appreciate the small talk -- but he forces himself not to and shakes his head. "No, not really. Just getting back to work."

She nods. "Might be hard to get right back into things, after a week of being off."

"It's not that hard of work, so," Harry says, shrugging. His hands are fumbling nervously in his lap. "Louis' probably going to be beat, though."

She nods again. "Yeah, for sure." And then she sits up straighter and takes a deep breath, and Harry knows they're getting to the point of this conversation. "Do you think you'll be able to keep in touch with him this time?"

And he wishes he could say that she doesn't sound angry, only curious, but she does. Maybe not angry, not exactly. It sounds like she's giving him a warning, almost. 

He glances away from her and focuses on the window. It's too dark to see anything move much. "Yes," he says, voice strained. "Yeah, I think so."

"Are you sure?” she asks. “Louis tells me that you have a lot of friends, and that you go out a lot, and with that and you working, are you sure you're going to be able to make time for him?"

"It's not like I didn't have time for him before," Harry says defensively. "It's not like it was an issue of prioritizing him, it's just -- complicated, okay?"

"I'm not criticizing you, love," she says, and Harry's not sure that's true. Maybe she isn't meaning to sound harsh, but she does. "It's just that Louis got pretty bent out of shape after you shut him out after he moved out. He's worried about you, for good reasons, and I'm not sure his heart could take being ignored by you again."

He doesn't need to hear this from her; he knows it already, and Louis' told him all of this before, and he doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't need her to make him feel guilty when he already does.

"He's my son, Harry. I'm trying to protect him. That's all."

Harry scoffs quietly, hurt. "He doesn't need protection from me.''

"Okay," she says, and she holds her hands out like she's surrendering. "Okay. I'm not saying he does. I know you're a good person, don't think I don't."

 _I burned myself in your son’s childhood bathroom with the lighter I brought for the bag of weed in my bag_. He doesn't consider saying that, obviously, but he wonders how good of a person she'd think he was if he did. 

"It's been really nice having you here," she continues, and she sounds like she means the words she's saying this time. "I've seriously missed you over the years. You're so grown now, and it's -- it's just really amazing to see."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Thanks. I've, um. I've missed you, too."

"You could've called at any time," she says quietly, and she sounds sad. He wonders what she's thinking about right now, what pathetic event Louis told her about that is going through her head. "At any time you needed someone, you could've come to me. I hope you knew that. And I hope you know that's still true."

"I do. I've always known that." And that's not exactly true; there's been plenty of times in his life where he felt like he couldn't go to her, or go to anyone. Still. He knows she’s a good person. He knows she cares about him. 

She tells him that he can go to bed after that, and he rounds the table to give her a hug because he's certain that she wants one from him right now. She squeezes him tightly, and when he pulls away, there's tears in her eyes, and he knows they're from pride, he _knows_ it, but he doesn't quite see how someone like her could be proud of someone like him. 

When he gets upstairs to Louis' room, Louis is sitting on the edge of his side of the bed, chewing on his thumbnail nervously. He stands when Harry enters the room, and Harry laughs quietly and shakes his head. 

"We just talked," he promises, and Louis relaxes slightly. 

"That's it? She didn't bring up anything personal, or, like, threaten to kill you?"

Harry shakes his head again. "No. Nothing like that."

Harry goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a piss, and then he gets under the blankets with Louis. He wonders for about a minute if they're going to do anything; this _is_ their last night here, after all. He doesn't get to think about it for long, because Louis turns to him and asks softly, "Do you feel up for doing anything?"

Harry nods, and then he's hit with a blast of anxiety, one that he tries to desperately push away. This could potentially be the last time he touches Louis like this; even if he manages to keep in contact with Louis when they go home, there's no promise that they'll stay like this. Whatever this is could end right here, tonight, in this bed. 

"We don't have to," Louis tells him. "Seriously. If you aren't in the mood, that's fine."

"Shut up and kiss me," Harry mumbles, already sitting up. He meets Louis halfway, and as they kiss, Louis keeps a hand on Harry's cheek the whole time, making them feel even more connected. Making Harry feel more grounded. 

All they do is kiss, even though both of them are half-hard by the end of it. It's enough, though, it's _more_ than enough, because it leaves Harry feeling so fucking loved. He's more used to this feeling now, after being exposed to Taylor's gentleness and Liam's post-sex cuddles and Niall's bear hugs that he gives Harry for no reason, but it feels different right now. Maybe it's because the love is coming from Louis and that means more, or maybe Harry's feeling more emotional right now. He doesn't know, but whatever it is, he's happy with the way he feels, with how full his heart feels. 

"Are you going to send me flowers when we get home?" Louis asks with a small laugh as he sets his head on Harry's chest. He sets his hand on Harry's belly, and he's moving his thumb back and forth. Harry wraps an arm around Louis and curls his fingers around Louis' hip. 

"Might do."

Louis snorts. 'Wouldn't be fair. You'd get them for free, since you work at a flower shop. Only thing I could get from work for free would be, like, latex gloves."

"You're tired," Harry says, because Louis gets silly when he's tired sometimes. 

"Yeah. Aren’t you?"

Harry shrugs. "Not really."

"Take your sleeping pill then, please." 

At the very least, Louis sounds apologetic, so Harry doesn't get annoyed when he slides out of bed, into the cold and away from Louis, to take a pill. Will probably do him good, anyway. Harry gets back into bed, and they get comfortable next to each other again. Neither of them say anything for a long while, and Harry stares at the ceiling as Louis continues to stroke his fingers over Harry's stomach. 

Abruptly, Louis says, "I really, really don't want tomorrow to be the last day we spend together for a long time. I don't want to go back to never seeing or talking to each other." His voice is small, like he's scared of that becoming their reality again, and Harry swallows thickly as he squeezes Louis' waist. 

"I'm not going to let that happen, Lou. I won't do that to you again."

Louis doesn't say anything, and Harry _knows_ he deserves to not be believed, but it fucking hurts anyway. 

"I promise," Harry says fiercely. "Don't let me. You know where I live, you have Nick's number. If I act like a dick and blow you off again, which I _won't_ , just go to Nick and annoy him enough and then I'll have him on my case, too."

Louis snorts and shakes his head against his chest. "You're stupid," he mumbles. 

Harry falls asleep fifteen minutes later, with a single thought running through his head: _don't let someone as important as him slip through your fingers, not again. You deserve this, you deserve him, so let yourself have him._

-

The goodbyes are short and sweet. 

There are too many of them to do anything other than briefly hug one person and then move onto the next. All of Louis' sisters give Harry a hug goodbye, even when he was sure they wouldn't, that they'd just send him off with a polite wave. The hug with Jay lasts the longest, and she tells him sternly that she's going to call him on his birthday, and that he has to answer. 

"Okay," he promises. "I will."

To the people who've treated him best in the world, Harry has built up the reputation of being a flake. And that's just a little bit shit. 

Ernie asks Harry for a hug wordlessly, just extending his arms up towards him, and Harry bends down to be able to give him a hug. Doris was on Jay's hip when he hugged her earlier. Ernie's little hands clutch onto Harry's jacket, and Harry doesn't know when or why it happened, but he feels like they've developed a bond. Maybe Ernie likes that Harry is quiet like him, and all Harry can do about that is desperately hope that Ernie doesn't turn out to be like him. 

Louis looks teary-eyed as he hugs his mum, and Harry feels guilty for getting in the way of their family time. He was invited, though, and he tried his best not to be a burden. He hopes nobody will look at their time here and think that Christmas was different in a bad way this year.

Louis helps him carry his bags to the car again, and then they're sitting down in the car and Louis' starting the ignition and Harry can't believe he actually made it through this week. Yeah, he had a slip up, but that was almost unavoidable. He can't predict it or help it much when he gets like that; at least, he doesn't know how to. It just happens. It's always just happened. He hasn't given it much thought. 

"Are you nervous to see Gemma?" Louis asks, and right, their week isn't officially over. He still has a giant hurdle to leap, but goddammit, it's his _sister_. It might be awkward, and she might be angry, but she knows how he is and why he is that way.

Harry nods. "Yeah. Don't really want to talk about it, though."

"Okay. That's fine."

"And, like. I don't want to be there for too long, if that's okay."

"That's fine," Louis says easily. "I don't mind."

Harry makes a quiet noise that even he doesn't know what is supposed to mean before he looks out the window. He is nervous. He's beyond anxious about this all. Even if it is just his sister, and even if she knows why he's like what he's like, this is still a very nerve-wracking thing. He can't downplay that. It's been around ten years, and that’s. . . It didn’t feel that long until now. 

Louis reaches over to grab his hand, and Harry's so far gone into his own head thinking about everything that, for a moment, he thinks Louis' just doing it to comfort him. After a second, though, as his thoughts quiet down and the pain registers, he realizes he was pressing down against his cuts. They're all scabbed over by now, and he wasn't pressing down hard, but Louis doesn't know that. 

He doesn't say anything, though. And Harry appreciates that more than he can describe. 

Louis' hand is warm and solid in his throughout the entire ride, and Harry doesn't let him go. He probably should once his hands start to sweat because he's getting anxious, although he doesn't because he's nervous and letting go of Louis sounds terrible right now. He does let him go when Louis turns into her driveway -- decent sized house, a bit bigger than the one they grew up in, two nice cars are in the driveway, the curtains are pulled open -- and then he immediately reconnects their hands when they walk up to the door together. 

"Breathe, Haz," Louis says lightly. It sounds like a joke, but when Harry goes to let out a halfhearted laugh, he realizes that his lungs got stuck mid-inhale and he didn't realize it. 

Louis' the one to knock, and after he does, he gives Harry's hand a tight squeeze before dropping it. He must not want Gemma to get the wrong impression. And now Harry has no idea what to do with his hands, and his sister is about to about the door any minute, and she's pregnant and he's missed the whole thing willingly, and -- 

The door opens. It's not Gemma; it's a man. _Steven_ , Harry thinks bitterly, and then stops when he can't figure out a reason as to why he should be mad at him. 

"Hey," Steven says, opening the door more so they can come inside. "It's nice to finally meet you. And to see you again, Louis." There's a small unnatural pause as Harry and Louis walk inside and stand in the entrance, neither of them saying anything. Harry realizes stupidly late that he's supposed to say something like, oh, nice to meet you too, but it's too late by the time he figures it out. "Gemma's in the bathroom, um. . . "

Louis saves it as much as he can by laughing and saying, "Pregnant women practically live in there, it seems."

Harry manages a small laugh; to Steven, it probably sounds fine, but Louis knows him well enough to hear the strain in it. 

He's trying to work up the courage to say something to Steven when a cat comes strolling into the living room. At first, Harry doesn't even consider that it could be Theo, thinks that maybe they just look alike, and then he realizes that it is. His heart seizes and his chest gets hot, and part of Harry is screaming _it's just a cat it's just a cat it's just a cat_ but the other part is sighing with relief and bitter nostalgia because that's not just a cat, that's _Theo_ , the cat that provided him comfort and love and laughter when everything else was complete shit. He was Harry's cat, until Gemma took him away.

He lets out a choked laugh as he carefully lowers himself to the ground and extends a hand out to Theo. He doesn't know how well a cat's memory is. Maybe he'll think Harry is just another stranger, but he's okay with that, mostly because Theo is a social cat and won't mind Harry's affection, stranger to him or not. 

Theo does come walking towards him, and after letting him sniff his fingers (he starts to rub his cheeks against them after a moment, and God, Harry's missed being around cats; he wonders if Nick's allergic and if he could convince him to get one), Harry moves to scratch at his chin. He always liked that, and he apparently still does, judging by the way he starts to purr loudly. 

A small laugh sounds from the doorway, and Harry glances up to see Gemma standing there, her hands placed over her very pregnant belly. "Knew you'd be more excited to see him than me."

He can't look at her long and he quickly forces himself to look back down at Theo. It's too much. He's got to ease himself into this. "How old is he?"

"I don't know. Like, fourteen? Fifteen? No clue. Doesn't matter, though. He's still a healthy cat. He's just going a bit deaf as of late."

God, Harry's heart is about to burst. "I don't know why I thought that he -- that he wouldn't be here."

"Cat's live a long time, Haz."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, petting Theo some more. "Guess so."

He needs to get up. He needs to get up right now and say hello to his sister and hug her or at the very least look at her for more than a few seconds. This shouldn't be hard. He shouldn't be struggling to convince himself to stand, and he shouldn't have let it get this far. 

It takes about a minute more of petting Theo to force himself to stand. The courage he had to do so immediately disappears when he's on his feet, so getting himself to walk over to her -- very visibly pregnant, long, brown hair, pale skin, taller than he remembers her being, so, _so_ pregnant -- is more complicated. He manages, though, and he's pretty sure walking over to her looked more graceful than it felt (he hopes, anyway). Either way, he's standing before Gemma, and in an instant, she pulls him in for a tight hug. 

It doesn't feel as unfamiliar as he thought it would. It's just her, just his sister. She hugs him the same way she's always hugged him; arms around his middle, cheek resting against his shoulder because he's taller than her. The only real difference is the bump between them, but it's not a bad change. It's a good change, he's pretty sure. He just has to hope that Steven is a good man and that Gemma didn't fall into the cycle of abuse.

"When are you due?" he asks quietly. The hand that's pressed against her back aches to touch her belly, to feel the baby, but he knows how intimate that is, and maybe they aren't close enough for her to feel comfortable with him touching. 

"Two and a half weeks," she says, and it sends a shock of panic down his spine. He doesn't know why, but before he can figure it out, she's pulling back and giving him a tired smile. "Which is why I need to sit down. My feet are killing me."

Immediately, he feels like he's done something wrong, and he guides her to the sofa with a firm hand on her shoulder as if he knows what he's doing. She sits down with a loud huff, and Harry turns and almost knocks into Steven, who has come to make her comfortable. He gets her a footrest and asks if she wants a blanket, and when she declines, he gives her a loving smile -- it's not fake, Harry knows it's not, and he hopes that means he's good -- before telling her softly that he and Louis are going to go out back. 

Harry turns to look at Louis, who is still standing near the doorway. He doesn't want him to go. He doesn't want to be alone with Gemma, as awful as that sounds. That leaves too much room for awkward conversation, and he was hoping Louis would be the one to announce they were leaving.

It's okay, though. He can handle this. 

And, well. Even if he can't, it's not like he has a choice. 

Louis and Steven leave the room, and as the backdoor shuts, he sits down on the sofa with Gemma, keeping as much space between them as possible. 

"It's a girl," she says softly, soothingly, and Harry hates that everyone can see how delicately he needs to be treated. He's pretty sure he used to be better and hiding it. 

He already knew the baby was a girl. She already told him that. So that probably means she doesn’t quite know what to say, either. 

"That's good," he says, and then cringes inwardly. That's a stupid thing to say. "Um, were you hoping for a girl?"

He's not looking at her, not at all, and he hopes she doesn't call him out on it. 

"I didn't mind. Boy, girl; it didn't matter."

Harry nods, and his brain spirals as he tries to come up with a better response. He can't, and shit, why is talking to people so difficult sometimes? At work he's usually okay with customers, and this is his own _sister._ He shouldn't be this way, not after all this time. 

"We're naming her Natalie," Gemma tells him, kind of stiffly. 

"Oh. That's pretty."

"It's Steven's grandmother's name," she says, and again, he doesn't know what to say. He has no idea. It's like he has thousands of words in his hands and he just can't grasp any of them. 

Eventually, he forces out, "That's nice of you two to do."

There's a small pause where neither of them say anything. He can _feel_ that Gemma wants him to say something, _anything,_ but he doesn't know what to say. He has no idea. 

"Steven's a pediatric nurse," she says, and there's an edge to her voice. _Why aren't you asking any questions?_ he can practically hear her thinking. _Do you just not care?_

"That's -- " nice, he's going to say, and that stops himself. "Louis' a nurse." He wants to kick himself. She _knows_ Louis' a nurse, _fuck_. 

She nods, he sees it out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah. I was there when he made his university decision. And, while we are on the subject, I kind of wanted to hit you when Mum told me you dropped out of uni. What were you thinking?"

"Gemma," he says, and it sounds threatening even to him. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Okay, but I do hope you consider going back. Not much you can do without a degree; I'm sure you know that. Don't tell me you want to be, like, a cashier for the rest of your life."

Cashier, amateur florist; same thing. And he feels like he's fully justified in snapping at her, because he's not about to have her judging him for something she knows nothing about. "Why does everyone think university is the most important thing in life?"

"Because it's pretty bloody important, Harry,” she tells him. “I just want you to have a good job, you know. A good life. I just want the best of you."

"Yeah, well." He sits back, still staring at his hands. "It was either dropping out or offing myself, so." He shrugs, a false calmness coming out as a defensive front. "Guess I'd rather be here doing retail for the rest of my life than not being here at all."

She doesn't match him, doesn't snap back. She doesn't say anything, because she's an adult and she's mature enough to recognize when someone is lashing out from hurt rather than anger. He almost wants her to fight back -- he's got enough fight in him right now; he's certain that the next person that grills him about uni is going to get a mouthful -- but he understands why she doesn't. She wants this to be a pleasant conversation, and she probably sees him as the same moody teenager that she left behind.

"Steven's mum is a teacher at our old high school," she says. 

Harry doesn't roll his eyes or scoff. He wants to, but he doesn't. "He's not anything like Dad, right?" He has to ask. Has to. He’d be a terrible brother if he didn’t. 

"Of course not," she says hotly. "Polar opposites, basically. He's sensitive and he's understanding and he's not a fucking lunatic, so."

It settles something deep in his chest. He hopes that she's not lying to him. He's pretty sure she's not, but still. "Good," he mumbles. "Are you married to him?"

She shakes her head, and he risks a glance at her. She looks a bit sad. "He wants to be married, but I don't want to be tied to someone like that. Just, like. In case, you know?"

He nods. He understands that completely. Although, if she didn't want to be tied to him, she probably shouldn't have had a kid with him. He's not going to say that, though. Of course not. 

"I know you're going to be a good mum," he hears himself say, and it's like he can't control it, "but don't get blinded like Mum. Don't have any other priority over her."

"I wouldn't. I know that I have to protect her. Me and Steven will always have her best interest at heart. Always."

"Okay, but -- you have to look out for her."

"I will, Harry."

"And if he ever -- " he can't say it, partly because it's too hard and partly because he knows he's probably being disrespectful towards Steven right now. Harry didn't realize how much this still sat with him, the resentment from not being protected. For not being looked after or loved good enough. 

"If he ever laid a hand on her, I would immediately leave him. _Immediately,_ Harry. You don't have to worry about that."

And it should be a relief to hear, but any decent mum would say that. Anyone would hope that's what they would do, yet that's not what their own mother did. She didn't leave their dad when he started hitting her, and she didn't leave him when he started hitting Harry.

"Guess I should say the same to you," Gemma says quietly. "Don't get involved with a crazy, don't settle for someone, don't forget your worth, and all that."

He wants to laugh -- if only she knew. Instead, he nods and says, "I won't. Thanks."

"And don't forget to take care of yourself," she says, even quieter than before. "Don't get mad at yourself if that takes a little extra effort than the average person."

He gets her a kind smile. "It's just anxiety. Not like it's anything serious."

"Depression is serious," she argues, and she doesn't look happy. "Being suicidal is serious. Getting so blindly high in an alley way that you can't function is serious."

He tries not to be angry. He really, really tries. "I _told_ you. I don't do hard drugs anymore."

"You shouldn’t have done them ever."

"Yeah, well. City life is different than here, I suppose." 

"I guess so," she says quietly. There's an edge of accusation in her voice, but he ignores it. He might be angry, though he's not sure he wants to fight. He thought he did a few moments ago, and he's not sure that's true anymore. This is his sister, and he hasn't seen her in too long. Maybe she's asking him things he doesn't want to talk about, but she's still trying to talk to him. 

She's trying. A lot of people don't try with him anymore, it feels like. 

(And that's not true. It's not. Taylor and Louis try relentlessly. Niall and Liam are constants in his life as well. Nick is patchy with it sometimes, but he still tries. So he doesn't know why he thinks that, or why it feels like it's true. He doesn't know why his brain tries to convince him to believe things that aren't true, especially things that will just hurt him.)

"Will you come back to Holmes Chapel?" she asks. "When I have the baby? Will you come visit her?"

He nods immediately. "Of course. Maybe not right away, but yeah, I'll come see her. I wouldn't want to miss that." He'd probably have to fit the visit around Louis' schedule, because he couldn't go through this all again alone, but he doesn't want to wait too long to see her after she's born. 

"You have to promise me that you aren't going to disappear again," she whispers. She looks devastated, like every bad feeling Harry has made her feel is crashing through the surface all at once. "Once you're in her life, once she's familiar with you, you can't just leave again."

"I won't, Gemma. Promise."

It seems to give her some peace of mind. He's not sure how he can tell, but he can. She looks lighter, almost. She shifts so her body is more pointed towards him, and then she grabs his hand. It doesn't bring the same comfort that Louis' hand brought. "You can feel, if you want."

Fear twists in his gut, and he almost wants to say no. He doesn't know why; he wants to touch her belly, to feel, but it's scary nonetheless. Tentatively, he brings his hand to her stomach, and for a few seconds, he can't think or feel or process anything because of how nervous he is. When he finally gets past that, he can finally focus on the belly beneath his hand, and the baby beneath that.

Any emotion he's feeling seems incapable of being described. It's like he's transfixed, almost. His baby niece is under there; can she feel him? Can she hear him? Will she eventually love him? He hopes she will. He hopes they'll have a bond, somehow. 

_Don't be like me_ , a tiny voice in the back of his head pleads over and over again, and it brings tears to his eyes. _Don't be like me. Don't inherit whatever fucked-ness I inherited from your grandfather. Miss our side of the bloodline completely, if you can. It won't do you any good._

He's scared for her. He wishes he knew Steven, wishes he got to know him over the years. He knows, logically, that not every father is abusive, but his brain isn't the best of friends with logic, so it doesn't do anything for him. 

-

Louis and him leave about ten minutes later, after Steven and Louis come back inside complaining of the cold and with pink-tinted noses. As soon as Louis comes into the living room, he shoots Harry a questioning glance, and Harry doesn't know what the question is, but he nods anyway. Before they go, Steven gives him a firm handshake and Gemma hugs him tightly and whispers quietly that this better not be the last time she hears for him. 

So, not only does he have Louis and Jay to keep up with when he gets back, he also has Gemma now, and the baby, and it's like Harry is incapable of talking to people, it's just -- that's all lot. All of it's going to stress him out. And, well. It doesn't have to be said that he doesn't handle stress well. 

After a final kiss to Theo's head, Harry and Louis leave. They get into the car and Louis turns the radio on before they pull out of the driveway, and they're barely down Gemma's street when Harry can't resist the urge to grab Louis' hand off the steering wheel to hold it anymore. 

Louis gives him a small smile before kissing the back of Harry's hand and swiping his thumb over Harry's knuckles, and it's unsettling, almost, how everything in his head manages to stop, even if it's only for a second. 

-

They stop for gas, food and a leg break about an hour away from home. 

They eat in the car -- pizza again -- for about ten minutes, and then Louis gets out of the car and walks around for a bit. When he comes back, Harry offers to drive the rest of the way, and Louis shakes his head. 

"I can drive, you know," Harry says quietly. He doesn't know why Louis won't just let him drive; it's not that far, and they're in an area that Harry's familiar with. It feels a bit like Louis doesn't trust him. 

"I know that. I'm not trying to insinuate anything, it's just," he shrugs. "I just want you to relax, I don't know."

It makes Harry smile gently, because even though things aren't as bad as they used to be, even though he's not as attention starved and aching for someone to love him (although, maybe he still is), it still feels nice to be cared for. He hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to be completely alone. 

Louis kisses him softly, and Harry can tell that it's only supposed to be a quick kiss, but something kicks up in Harry's brain -- panic, is what it is, that this is going to end -- and he doesn't let Louis get too far before he's grabbing him and pulling him back in for another kiss. It's rough and desperate and probably not any good, but Louis doesn't seem to care at all. He kisses him back just as desperately, and Harry kind of feels like crying and he doesn't know why. 

They start driving again a few minutes later, and Harry's got that cold vice of anxiety around his ribcage. He's convinced that as soon as they get home, as soon as they part ways, Harry's going to lose him and that's so stupid to be afraid of because Harry won't lose him if he just lets himself have him. Louis wants to be in Harry's life, and he'll actively try to have a place there, and yet Harry still feels like this is all out of his control. 

He texts Nick, who was supposed to get back home yesterday, to say he'll be home in about an hour, and Nick texts him back fairly quickly. _Stayed home a bit longer than I planned to, I'll be home after New Years. Love you xx Hope you had fun._

It shouldn't make him so painfully sad that he has to turn away and look out the window to distract himself so he doesn't cry, it really shouldn't. Everything inside him feels so raw right now, like everything is rubbing up against each other wrong and chafing.

He deals with it silently, because there's nothing Louis can do about it. Harry doesn't even know why he feels so torn up right now, so how the hell could Louis help him? He just gets like this, sometimes. It's nothing he hasn't dealt with before. That doesn't make it any less annoying though, or any easier to handle.

A few minutes later, Louis asks, "Do you have any plans tonight, or are you just going to go home and crash?"

If Nick was home, they'd probably play video games or smoke weed together or watch a movie. He's not home, though, so Harry's going to have the entire house to himself and he's going to be left to occupy himself all night, and he knows he should be a little more responsible, but all he can really think about is the blade sitting in the drawer right next to his bed. 

He promised himself he'd stop once he got back, but he didn't promise anyone else. Nobody will know that he failed before he even started except for him, and he doesn't care if he disappoints himself. 

When he starts to do this, when his brain starts to go in circles and kick up a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts, he always wonders if it's to be blamed on his depression or anxiety or both. 

"Probably just crash," Harry answers finally.

Louis nods. "Same. I'm exhausted, and I’ve got to work a twelve hour shift tomorrow."

 _Then stay_ , Harry's heart cries. _Just come stay with me, come sleep in my bed. Come hold me, just for a little while._

When they get to Nick's house, Harry already knows his agenda, and he's not exactly proud of it. He's almost certain it'll get Louis to stick around for a little while longer. It's odd; he spent years keeping Louis out, and now the idea of him not being right next to him seems unbearable. And he knows it's not that he wants Louis, it's that he _needs_ anyone, but he ignores that. 

Louis grabs his bags for him and follows him to the door. Harry's hands shake, a bit, as he tries to get the key in, and once he manages to, they get inside and Louis sets his bags down. 

"Alright, well," Louis says, and then he is coming over and wrapping his arms around Harry, pulling him close. He rubs his hand over Harry's back for about a minute before he pulls back slightly, and Louis' going to kiss him. Harry does it first and immediately skips over the gentle kisses that Louis likes to give him. It's not rough, not yet, but it's close enough and getting the message across. 

He's not so sure that Louis will stay with him for only a few kisses though, so he whispers, "Want you to fuck me," quietly against Louis' hear, and then leans down to kiss at Louis' jaw. 

It's stupid. He knows it is. He's not in the particular mood to be fucked, and he doesn't want Louis seeing the mess he's made of his body, and it's wrong, probably, -- no, definitely -- to lie to Louis about what he wants to get something else. He doesn't know how to ask Louis to stay, though, doesn't know how to let Louis in that much. (And that's backwards, isn't it; he won't let Louis into his head but he'll let him into his body.)

"Really?" Louis asks, and his voice gives away how badly he wants that, too, and _yes_ , Harry thinks, _he's going to stay._

Harry doesn't waste any time leading him to his room, and it goes on from there. They kiss. Their jackets come off, and then their shoes. They kiss some more; Louis grows desperate quickly, already half-hard against Harry. Harry doesn't let himself get nervous about taking his pants off until his shirt is gone and so is Louis'. _It's okay_ , he tells himself. _It's fine_. So many people have seen his scars and cuts; nobody has seen the burn, though, and Louis is different. Louis has only ever caught a glimpse of his cuts, just that one time, and Harry's terrified. 

He warned Taylor beforehand, the first time they had sex. She didn't comment on them during sex, but she did keep telling him how good he looked. Liam was wasted the first time they fucked, and he's never really said anything about them. Niall asks him about how he's doing with 'that whole thing' as he always puts it time to time, and he looks like he genuinely cares, and he doesn't dwell on them when they see each other naked. 

Nick, though. Nick has made him feel disgusting about himself, about his body, on more than one occasion. And so has Oli, in different ways. Harry can't take Louis saying anything hurtful about it. If Louis ever called him gross or shameful or made it out to be like it's a joke, Harry's certain that'd be his breaking point. 

He's realizing slowly how much he cares for Louis. How deeply. It's like Louis' opinion is the only one that matters, sometimes.

Louis pulls off from where he's sucking a dark bruise on Harry's throat and asks breathlessly, "You sure?" as he tugs on Harry's waistband, and immediately, Harry knows he can't do it.

Harry's certain he would've kept his mouth shut and let it happen if Louis didn't ask beforehand. He would've just let it happen and cried about it later, and maybe that's wrong. Maybe he should value himself more, and maybe he should've realized Louis would make sure that Harry was on board with everything that’s happening. 

Harry doesn't even have a chance to say anything before Louis' shutting everything down. He's taking a deep breath and clutching onto Louis' shoulder and staring at the ceiling, trying to calm himself down before he embarrasses himself, and then Louis is sitting up and shaking his head. 

"I'm not doing anything if I can't tell for certain you actually want to," Louis says quietly, almost like he's apologizing. And that's crazy. What does Louis have to be sorry for? Nothing. Harry's the one who is always messing things up.

"No, it's fine," Harry lies, and the shake in his voice isn't the only thing that shows he's lying. He's tense and he can't look at Louis and shit, he just wants Louis to _stay._

"Hey," Louis says, so, so softly. "It's okay that it's not."

"But it is," Harry says, trying to sound convincing. He forces himself to move, to get his thumbs under his waistband so he can pull them down and Louis can fuck him, but before he can, Louis grabs one of his wrists gently. 

"Harry, love. It's not a big deal. We don't have to do anything."

And no, _no_ , Louis needs to stay. Harry _needs him_ to _stay_. 

"So, what?" he snaps, sitting up and pulling his wrist away from Louis' grip. He's not angry, so he doesn't know why he's pretending to be. "I can't let you fuck me, so you're just going to leave?"

It's so painfully obvious how insecure he is, even to him. It's fucking embarrassing. Adults aren't supposed to lash out on people out of insecurity, especially on people they care about. And what's even worse is that he recognizes it and still doesn't know how to stop. He doesn't know how to talk to people right. He doesn't know how he's supposed to learn. 

Louis looks hurt, though, and Harry knows he has to apologize, or try to take it back, or make it better in any way he can. Louis deserves more than that. He doesn't deserve to be accused of something like that. 

Still, all Harry does is look away, feeling humiliated. 

Louis sighs quietly. "Harry. . ."

"Just go," Harry tells him, and he doesn't know why. It's like he can't stop himself sometimes, and that's not him denying accountability, it's him struggling to understand any of this. He wishes he wasn't like this so desperately, that he knew how to ask for what he wanted and how to not push people away when he's scared. 

"I hate when you do this," Louis mumbles, and then he sighs again. "Can you just talk to me? Please? So I don't have to try and figure out what's happening?"

Harry's going to cry. He's going to cry and he doesn't want Louis to see him while he does, so he gets more panicked and the need for Louis to go (but also for him to come closer, to protect him and hold him) is getting stronger. "I think you should just go. Seriously."

"I didn't _do_ anything _wrong_."

" _Louis_ ," Harry snaps, looking at him finally. "Just fucking _go_ , okay? I'll talk to you tomorrow or something."

"No, you won't," Louis snaps back, and that -- no, Harry just wants to be left alone. He doesn't want to fight. He just wants to hide. "Don't fucking push me out because something is going through your head that I don't understand. _Help_ me understand, and tell me what I need to do to fix it, and then we can figure it out from there. I'm not going home with you mad at me. Not after we spent the last week together and had a good time."

Harry clenches his jaw hard to try to will the tears away and he looks down. 

"Unless this was your intention the entire time," Louis says coldly. "Maybe all you wanted was a decent holiday and I was the only one who could give it to you. Did you have a good time, then? Did you get what you wanted?"

"God, Louis," Harry grits out. He pulls his knees up to his chest and covers his hand with his face, his fingers sliding over his forehead as he tries to think about how to fix this. It's not so much Louis' words that hurt, but how much it sounds like he means them. "That's not -- no. That's not what I was trying to do."

"Then what is your goal here? Because I really don't get it."

Harry takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair. He needs to fix this, and he needs to fix it now. "I'm just scared," he says quietly, and it feels like he's admitting to something insanely vulnerable, and it doesn't impress Louis at all.

"Then _talk_ to me about it," Louis says. He still sounds angry. "You can't get upset every time you're worried about something or someone is worried about you. That's not how life works. If you'd just be honest with me, I think we'd have an easier time at this."

It's about time someone forces him to take accountability for his shit, who doesn't just let him off the hook. He wasn't expecting it to be Louis. 

"I just want you to stay," Harry whispers, and tears flood to his eyes. _Shit_. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, god. I don't mean half the shit I say, and I don't fucking know why I say it."

"You weren't shown how to handle your emotions properly as a kid," Louis says, the anger gone. Now he sounds tired. "You haven't been in an environment that's good for you, like, ever. Of course you aren't going to be the best at talking about your feelings and whatever, and I understand that, but you -- " he sighs. "You have to try as hard as you can so we can avoid shit like this happening."

He doesn't blink, because if he does, a tear will fall. "I know," he says miserably. "I don't -- I'm sorry. I'm just sorry." He doesn't blink, but he does look down, and it causes two tears to fall, and he quickly brushes them away. He doesn't want Louis feeling bad for him. 

"I'm not asking you to be sorry," Louis tells him. "I just want you to try your best. And to understand where I'm coming from."

"I do," Harry says quickly, because he does. He does understand. He knows he's a pain to be around (and he knows that Louis wouldn't want him thinking that, even when it feels so true). "I know that it's partly my fault, why I'm like this. I don't help myself, I know that. I'm sorry."

Louis doesn't say anything for a minute, and Harry continues trying not to cry. Eventually, Louis says, "I hope you know you don't deserve to have to struggle this badly. I hope you know that."

Harry wipes at his eyes before anything has a chance to slip out. "I do know that." Sometimes. Sometimes it doesn't feel true, and sometimes it does. Right now it doesn't. Right now he feels like everything is his fault and that he messes everything up.

"Then, if you know that, I want you to know that it doesn't have to be like this, love."

Harry pulls his hands from his face. "If you talk to me about therapy right now, I might actually fucking lose it. I don't want to hear about it every two seconds. I know you think that's what I need, and it probably is, but I just -- not right now."

"Okay," Louis says. "Okay. Fair enough." He reaches out to squeeze Harry's knee, and it's involuntary, the way Harry immediately reaches out to grab him. Louis flips his hand over so he can hold Harry's hand. "Why'd you get angry? Can we talk about that?"

Great. So Louis thinks he needs to be talked to like a child, and that hurts, but maybe that's where they need to start. "Nick's not coming back until after New Years," he says quietly. "He was supposed to get back yesterday."

"And you don't want to be alone?" Louis guesses, filling in the parts Harry didn't want to admit to. "Why?"

Harry doesn't like this at all. He doesn't want to talk about all of this. He has to, though. Louis needs him to. 

"In the car, I just -- I just got, like. Sad." That word doesn't nearly cover it, but everything else sounds too melodramatic. "And I -- I knew, like. That if I was alone all night, I'd. . . get more sad."

"You'd hurt yourself," Louis says quietly. 

Harry nods once, and sucks in a shaky breath. "And I don't want to. I don't want to keep doing that."

"That's good, darling. That's good to hear."

He sounds overwhelmed, like he doesn't know what to say. Harry wonders if Louis ever thought that cutting himself is something he actually wants to do, because that's not true. It's not. At all. The only times what he does comes close to wanting to do it is when he does it to punish himself for something, and even then, it's -- no. He doesn't _want_ to do it, ever.

"And I'm more scared of it now," Harry says thickly. He doesn't know why he says it; Louis would probably let him stop talking now. He told him what was wrong. He doesn't need to keep talking. "When I did that -- when I burnt myself, I. I had no control over what I was doing. I didn't even feel like myself, and that's so scary, and that's only ever happened one other time, and I dropped out of university because of it, and -- and I'm scared of myself. Of what I'm capable of." Hot tears rush down his cheeks, and he doesn't brush them away. Louis does it for him. "That's terrifying, Lou. To be scared of yourself. To not trust yourself. Make me feel insane."

"You're not insane," Louis says, and the fact that's all he can come up with to say in response to that makes Harry feel even more out of touch with everyone else. 

"Feels like there is no point in stopping now," Harry says quietly. Too quietly, probably. Louis most likely can only pick up on a few words and has to put the sentence together himself.

"That is _not_ true." His tone is fierce, demanding to be listened to. "You should stop, for yourself and for so many other reasons."

Harry lets out a quiet sniffle as more tears fall, and again, Louis is the one to wipe them away. "The scars will never fade. Ever. I'll never be able to hide what I've done, so there's no fucking point in not doing it anymore."

"Fresh cuts are completely different than faded scars," Louis argues. 

It takes Harry a minute of quiet thinking to realize the reason why it's so hard to believe Louis is because Oli is the one who told him otherwise. He might value Louis' opinion the highest, but that doesn't mean Oli's words don't stick to his brain more. Oli's words always felt like the truth. 

Harry decides that he is done talking about this, and he wipes at his mostly dry cheeks. "Feels like I just ruined our week completely."

'You didn't, love. Promise. You can't help when you don't feel well. There's no on/off switch for it, I get that."

It doesn't give him the right to act like a child though, is what Louis is getting at. He can't blow up on people because he's stressed. And he knows that; of course he knows that. He gets in such a spiral sometimes that it feels like he can't control himself, even when he knows he can.

"Now," Louis says, leaning forward. "I'll stay the night, if that's what you want. I don't mind. I do have to work tomorrow, though, so -- "

"I'll be fine," Harry interrupts. He doesn't want to hear what Louis has to say about it. 

"You sure?"

Harry nods. He will be, probably. He works tomorrow himself, so that'll give his brain something to focus on and it'll tire him about, and then he'll come home and smoke and go to bed. It'll be fine. (And even if it's not, even if he cuts -- nobody can expect him to just automatically stop.)

Louis does stay the night, and the entire time it's a bit awkward. Not painfully so, but -- Louis' trying to help while also attempting to seem normal, and Harry doesn't know how to tell him that he doesn't need anything, not really. While Louis showers, Harry goes to the living room to smoke, and then when he gets out, they watch a crappy movie while talking quietly about things that don't really matter. 

Before bed, Taylor calls Harry and they talk for a little while. She's coming home in two days, and she's checking in to see how he is and to tell him that her mum wants to meet him sometime. That spikes worry in him; he'd rather not go to a different country to visit a stranger. Even if Taylor's mum came here, that still seems like a lot of pressure. 

He doesn't say that though, partly because it'd be rude and partly because Taylor already knows how he feels about that without him having to say it. 

Harry feels a little guilty about keeping Louis here with him, by scaring him into it by saying he's feeling like he might cut (that wasn't his intention, not at all, but he can't be sure that's not the only reason why Louis' staying). The guilt fades into apathy when they lay down together, because Louis kisses him sweetly and then they cuddle, and when Harry can't sleep, he has Louis' heartbeat to listen to. 

-

At work, Harry spends the entire day mulling over which bouquet Louis would like best. He doesn't know Louis' favorite flower, so that puts a huge damper on his planning, and he also is aware that getting him a bouquet of flowers because of an offhand joke he made a few days ago might be weird, so they have to be pretty. 

Red roses seem too forward, like he's labeling something that doesn't have a label yet. And Harry's never bought a red rose for anyone, so he feels like he should stick to that. Almost all the other bouquets are pretty, but Harry doesn't know what Louis would want. Pinks and purples don't feel very Louis to him, and getting him a bunch of playful colored flowers makes the gesture feel less serious than he wants it to. 

At the end of his shift, he does another once over of the store, trying to find one that feels right to him. Anna watches him, and as he starts to walk around for the second time, she laughs quietly. 

"You plan on getting one, or something?" she asks. 

He nods, staring down at a bouquet of pink roses. They're pretty, but they also look like something he'd buy for his sister. 

"Who? Taylor?"

Harry scoffs quietly and shakes his head, a small smile on his face. She visits him at work from time to time, as does he to her, and Anna's met her enough times to know her by name. "No. Someone else."

"Well," Anna says, walking over to him. "Are you dating this someone?"

"No. I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

Harry bites on his bottom lip and shrugs. "I don't know. Not yet, I guess."

Not yet. That's a scary thought. It makes him blush and his stomach drop, for so many different reasons. He doesn't know what Louis wants; fuck, he doesn't even know what _he_ wants. It's Louis. He's never thought of dating Louis. Not seriously, anyway. And there's no way Louis could deal with him for that long, not as his boyfriend, and that's scary, too. Dating Harry might be the thing to finally scare Louis away for good. 

"These are nice," she says, her fingers running over the plastic on a bouquet of yellow carnations. 

He shrugs. "They look like something you'd buy your neighbor."

She lets out a loud laugh. "And to think that when you started working here, you couldn't tell the difference between a lily and a daisy."

He pouts a little, because that was literally his first day and Niall almost made him quit when he cackled at him loudly and told Anna like it was the funniest thing in the world. 

Eventually, he picks out a bouquet that feels mostly right. It's full of yellow lilies and white daisies, and he wraps them in a light purple sheet of plastic. As Anna finishes tallying today's income, he spends his time focusing hard on what to say on the little note card.

_thank you for everything x_

That's what he settles for, and as he stares down at the words written in red ink, he wonders if it says too little or means too much. He considers adding something else -- a joke, maybe; _yes, these were free, haha_ \-- but he decides to leave it. It feels like it's enough, and that Louis will take from it what he will no matter what Harry writes down. 

When Louis first moved out, he wrote down his new address on a sticky note that Harry shoved in a drawer, thinking he didn't care. He wrote the address down in his phone this morning, so when he leaves with the flowers in his hand, he drives to Louis' flat. 

It's only five-thirty, so Louis probably has about another hour or two of work left. And if he is home, Harry will just quietly give them to the person at the desk and leave; he doesn't want to be caught, is the thing, because this feels a little embarrassing for some reason. 

The entire ride over, he wonders if this is dumb. By the time he's there, he decides it probably is. He’s already here, though. Might as well do it. 

Louis' apartment complex is definitely fancier than Harry's old one. It looks nicer and more expensive, and almost all of the cars in the lot look brand new and shiny. Except his. 

There's a woman at the desk, and Harry refuses to let himself panic (still not how it works, but he tries anyway). He goes up to her, asks her to give these to, "Um, Louis Tomlinson? His apartment number is twenty-eight." She doesn't give him a weird look, even though his mind tries to convince him otherwise -- she _did_ stare at the flowers a little long -- and she takes them and sets them on the back desk. 

"What's your name?" she asks. "So if he asks who they're from. . ."

He bites back a smile. He feels giddy, almost, which is -- odd. New. Unsettling. "He'll know who they're from."

She presses her lips together tightly. "Right, well. Also for, like, security reasons. If you could just write your name down here. . . " she passes him a piece of paper for visitors, he assumes, and he signs his name, face bright red and heart hammering in his chest. 

He leaves quickly after that, and even though he made a right idiot out of himself, he doesn't regret it. 

He does go home and smoke too much weed by himself to clear his head, although that's not really different from any other night. 

Around seven-thirty, Harry's probably a little too stoned when he gets Louis' text. He's not too far gone; he can read Louis' text and think about it clearly, it's just. Everything feels quieter, somehow. Calmer. 

_Thank you for the flowers :)) they're lovely. Didn't get you the latex gloves tho, try not to be too heartbroken x._

He wants to call Louis, wants him to come over and just be near him like he was last night, like he has been for the past week. He's pretty sure he took that for granted when Louis was living with him: someone constantly being around. Even when Louis was at work, there were dishes in the sink or his socks on his floor, and even simply knowing that someone's stuff was behind a closed door would make Harry feel so much better. 

There is someone's stuff behind a closed door, though, he realizes. Hell, this is _Nick's house_ ; Nick's stuff is everywhere. So maybe it's just a Louis thing, he doesn't know. 

All he sends back is two _xx_ 's. He's not sure what else to say, although when he stares down at that sent message, he's got a hundred different other things he wished he would've sent instead running through his head. 

_Hope you like them_ , being one. _I miss you_ , being another. _I don't know how I didn't talk to you for so long because all I want is for you to be less than five feet away from me at all times_ , is the last one he allows himself to think before shutting his phone off and going to sleep. 

Which was a bad idea. A stupid, thoughtless idea, because now he's awake at three o'clock in the morning and all he can think about is the blade sitting in drawer. There's just something about the nighttime that makes him get like this, and now he's stuck here, fighting an urge he's given into easily for almost the entire last year. 

After an hour of trying to distract himself, he goes to the bathroom to prod at his burn under the guise that he's just checking how it's healing. It's weird, how he can lie even to himself. He doesn't do anything other than poke at the edges of it like he did the last time, although all that does is make him want to cut even more, so his plan kind of backfired. 

He goes to the living room after stopping at the fridge to grab a beer and turns on music from his phone. He drinks the beer slowly, the cool press of the aluminum against his lip being the only thing he's focusing on aside from the beat of whatever song is playing. 

It lasts for about twenty minutes, and then the itch gets harder to ignore. 

A part of him wants to grab the pamphlet Louis gave him on self-harm, but he knows that he'll just grab for his blade, so he instead looks up tips on his phone. It's stupid, probably. Pointless. He's read every possible tip there is, and most of them don't help. He clicks on the first link anyway. 

And then immediately clicks out of it again when the second tip is _cry_. That's not helpful. At all. And crying isn't a stress-reliever for him, or anyone else he knows for that matter. 

Listen to music. Clean your room. Go out for a walk. Call a friend. Hug something soft. Dance. Exercise. Watch TV. Write. Scream in your pillow. 

Harry sighs and exits out of the site. None of those are helpful. They never are. Sure, a number of those things will take his mind off of it for a little while, but he doesn't need his mind taken off of it, he needs it out of his mind completely. If he distracts himself the entire day, then he'll come home from work and be so desperate for the feeling that it’ll increase the chances of him accidentally doing something stupid. 

He goes to his messages, and then pauses. Everyone he knows that would understand why he needs someone to talk to is probably sleeping right now, and the one person he knows isn't is spending time with her family and doesn't need Harry bothering her with this. Taylor won't see it as a burden, and she won't be annoyed with him at all, but it doesn't make him feel any less guilty for putting all this heavy shit over her head all the time. 

He'll text Louis first. If Louis isn't awake, then he'll call Taylor and try to avoid the topic at hand. 

_what are the chances that you are awake?_ he texts. It's almost four, and he knows that Louis gets up early on the days he works. Maybe not this early, but Harry has hope. 

At three forty-five, he gives Louis until four. At four, he pushes it back to four-thirty. At four-thirty, when he's aching for it so badly that he has to wrap his arms around a couch pillow and dig his fingers into the edges of it, when he's shaking his leg up and down and clenching his jaw, he gives Louis until four-forty five, and if he hasn't texted back by then, then he's going back to his room and grabbing the blade and making one, _one_ , small cut, and he's not going to be mad at himself for it because he tried. 

Kind of. Probably not hard enough, but it doesn't matter. 

Louis texts him back at five, ten minutes after Harry broke and made two new lines above his knee. (He's running out of space, but that's what he always thinks and he never actually does. He makes new marks over scars, and by the time those are filled up, there are other places mostly scarred over that he goes to. It's a process. And he's been going farther up lately, just a little, and a little lower too.)

_Awake now. What's up?_

Harry stares down at the text through bleary eyes, and he desperately wishes he could've held on a little while longer. 

-

The rest of the day is shit. 

He's mad at himself. Livid. He couldn't even last two whole days of being clean at home, and that's. . . pathetic. Worrying. Fucking irritating. 

And everything seems to be going wrong; he can't find a certain type of plastic wrap, and they run out of red roses by noon even though Harry told Anna yesterday she needed to order more, and a customer gets pissy with him because he gave her ten cents too little, and by the time he's ready to drive home, he's so wound up and angry and filled to the brim with self-hatred that he _knows_ he'll cut again, he _knows_ it, and he doesn't want to fall down this vicious cycle again. He really, really doesn't.

This is usually when he'd call Oli, even though it was kind of counterproductive. He's done with that, though, so he parks in a Nando's parking lot and calls Gemma instead. 

It's a short conversation. She's in the waiting room at a doctor's appointment. The only thing they talk about is the baby, which is fine, it just does absolutely nothing to help him. Maybe that's selfish to think, he doesn't know. Maybe he should stop looking for guidance in everyone else when there are actual professionals trained to help people like him, and get paid for it, too.

_Alright then. Do you know any good therapists I could see? Or how to find one?_

Harry stares at that unsent text to Louis for probably ten minutes. In the end, he erases it; even though he desperately wants to stop being like this, he doesn't feel ready for that. 

He doesn’t feel ready to be happy and healed yet. What does that even mean?

He sits in the parking lot with the radio on for about twenty-five more minutes, and by the time he decides he really should leave, he knows he can't go home to an empty house again. He probably will only add a cut or two, but he doesn't fucking want to, so he calls Louis in an attempt to make plans with him tonight. 

It goes to voicemail. Harry wants to cry. 

He doesn't. 

-

Louis does end up calling him about thirty minutes later, and Harry's still driving around aimlessly because he doesn't want to go home, and in no time, Harry's standing in Louis' kitchen, waiting for Louis to pour him a cup of coffee. 

Louis' flat is so much nicer than Harry's old one that it makes him feel painstakingly embarrassed. He thought his flat was decent, but compared to Louis', it's shit. No wonder why Louis left. 

After Louis hands him his coffee, he goes off to take a quick shower and Harry sits on the couch, wondering what Louis is thinking about him right now. He wonders if Louis can see it on his face, that he cut again. Maybe. Harry feels terribly guilty, and he wouldn't be surprised if that is leaking through to the surface. 

Louis doesn't seem to catch onto it, though. Or maybe he's just being nice. Either way, they don't talk about it for the entire night. They watch a movie and eat dinner together, with the flowers Harry got him placed neatly in a vase with a price tag still on it in the middle of his kitchen table. 

Louis tells him about work, and Harry didn't realize how passionate Louis was about what he does until now. He listens contently to Louis talk with his head against Louis' stomach and Louis sliding his hand back and forth against his back. 

He ends up accidentally falling asleep with his head in Louis' lap a little while later, when they've turned on a different movie because the first one was shit. He sleeps hard, too, like his mind knows he's in a safe enough space to do that. He wakes about a half hour later to Louis dragging his fingers through Harry's hair as he whispers that Harry needs to wake up. 

"I've got to piss, mate," he says, and Harry makes a quiet noise before lifting his head off of Louis and allowing him to get up. Louis does, and while he's gone, Harry dozes off on the couch again, clutching onto a blanket that wasn't there when Harry first fell asleep. 

"You can stay the night, if you want," Louis tells him when he gets back from the bathroom. Harry's half asleep still, but that's enough to wake him up. "No pressure," Louis adds, a small smile on his face. 

Harry doesn't know what he means by that; no pressure to stay the night, or no pressure to fool around with him. Regardless, staying the night sounds nice to Harry, so he accepts with a smile of his own. 

They do end up kissing for a little while, although nothing else comes of it because Louis' exhausted. After they kiss lazily in Louis' bed for about ten minutes ( _what is this?_ Harry wants to ask. _What are we doing?_ ) he turns Harry around and cuddles against him, and Harry feels so protected

"I work the night shift tomorrow," Louis says quietly. "So there's no rush for you to leave on my end."

Harry works tomorrow, and he wants to call off, wants to spend the day with Louis, but that seems too desperate and also irresponsible, so he can't. 

The next morning, when he gets up to leave so he can go home and shower really quick before work, Harry accidentally wakes Louis, and one thing leads to another and he ends up giving Louis an apology blow-job. Before he leaves, Louis laughs brightly and calls him an idiot, and there's a glow of happiness radiating from Harry's chest. 

_Are you dating this someone?_

_Not yet._

Harry thinks about that the entire drive to work. Because they are on the path of dating, aren't they? Maybe this will stay a casual thing, but Harry doubts that. He doubts that alot, because Louis is a mature adult with his life in order, and he doesn't seem like he would want casual. Maybe Harry's wrong, maybe this is all Louis wants this to be, because if it's not, then Louis' considering Harry as a possible boyfriend and there's no way Louis would do that to himself. Harry's a piece of work; a wreck. He can't want to stick around that.

And a part of Harry doesn't want him to, either. That part is confusing. Because Louis deserves someone so much more put together than he is. He deserves someone that he can come home to at the end of the day and relax with; knowing Harry, he'd only stress Louis out more. 

Harry has a lot of problems, and as much as Louis seems to want to help, a friend helping you out is a lot different than being dependent on your boyfriend to put out fires when it comes to your mental health. He'd be selfish, becoming Louis' boyfriend when he's still this fucked.

-

That thought sticks with him for a long time, and it's relentless. 

He'd ruin Louis, probably. With all his issues. Louis will become jaded, and he'd eventually have to pick up the pieces too many times and leave Harry. And then they wouldn't even be friends. They'd be completely out of each other's lives forever. 

Every time Louis kisses him for the next week, all Harry can think is, _you don't know what you're getting yourself into._ Because Louis doesn't. Louis probably thinks the mess in Harry's head is like an untidy room that just needs sifting through, not an ever-growing mess that can never be cleaned; when you pick up one thing, four more things appear to replace it. 

Harry tries really, really hard to shove it down -- he doesn't know for sure if Louis even _wants_ to be his boyfriend -- but it's impossible. It's always there, a lingering feeling of looming disappointed. 

Nick and Taylor coming back home should probably make him happy, and it does, to an extent. He is happy, and he's glad to not be alone anymore because he's still having trouble staying clean, but it also makes him feel overwhelmed, like everyone's asking for a piece of him even though he knows they aren't. Taylor would completely be okay if he needed time to himself, and Nick has enough mates that he probably wouldn't even notice if Harry pulled away. But he still feels like he needs to give himself away to everyone anyway, and by his birthday, he's so close to rock bottom that he can't believe how quick he fell. 

When Gemma called to tell him she had the baby, Harry didn't know what to say, and when he didn't say much aside from asking if everything went okay, if everyone was healthy, she got irritated with him. _You could at least pretend like you care,_ she snapped, and Louis has told him over and over again that she probably didn't mean to be so harsh on him, that she was exhausted from having just given birth. He's still so scared that she's going to get mad if he calls her though, so he doesn't. 

Taylor asks him if he's doing okay a day before Louis does. 

"You seem really quiet lately," she says softly, concerned. They're sitting on the sofa together, and she reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. Her hand stays there, lingering, and Harry doesn't even know what to say. 

So he doesn't say anything, and Taylor sighs, scooting closer to rest her head on his shoulder and drape her legs over his. He knows that what he's feeling goes deeper than a bout of insecurity and doubt because her touch barely makes him feel a fraction better. Maybe that's why they haven't been having sex as much; Harry thought it was because he felt guilty about fooling around with Louis and Taylor at the same time, even though they know about each other. Maybe his sex drive is shot right now because he's slipped into another period of depression. 

It makes him so angry. At himself, because who else is there to blame? It's _his_ stupid brain that can't fucking _work_ right. 

When Harry told Taylor about the burn, she was horrified and made him promise to never do that to himself again, but right now he kind of feels like just lighting his entire body on fire. Not in a suicidal way, just. . . something else. He doesn't quite know. 

She cuddles up to him quietly for about a half hour, and in that time, Harry brings himself close to tears and is gnawing on his bottom lip to the point he tastes blood. It's just so goddamn tiring. How long will this last? When will he start to feel like himself again? How many days does he have to give to the sickness inside of him?

It's already been three or four weeks. It's February third, and no, he didn't answer Jay's call on his birthday, and yes, he's such a fucking disappointment. He’s twenty-seven years old now and is still doing this shit. 

Not too long ago he was feeling giddy over getting Louis a bouquet of fucking flowers, and now the mere thought of seeing Louis makes him hate himself for being so selfish, and this is the exact reason he doesn't want Louis getting involved with him. 

Despite it all, he still has been going to Louis' at least a few times a week. The following day, though, is the last time Harry can convince himself to go for a long time. 

It's the same talk they've had a hundred times: 

_You're sad. You're doing poorly. I want you to get help._

_I know I am. And no, I'm not seeing a therapist._

_But Harry._

_But Louis._

It's exhausting, and Harry's sick of it, and after they've finished talking about it (Harry didn't mean to snap at him as harshly as he did, he didn't), he wants to go home and hide from the world, but he knows Louis' worried about him and he knows up and leaving abruptly when he usually stays the night will worry him like mad. 

So they're mostly quiet for the rest of the night, and all it does is make Harry's anxiety go completely off the wall. By the time they lie down for bed, every little thing feels like someone's pressing down on an exposed nerve, and he knows he's going to cry tonight, he knows he is. 

Taylor texts him goodnight just like she does every other night. _Hope you had a good day. Hope tomorrow is better to you. Goodnight, sweet dreams_ , with a few heart emojis. 

_sweet dreams to you too x_ is what he sends back, and then he sets his phone on the nightstand and lays flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling which he'll probably be doing all night. Louis' at least half a foot away from him, and it's probably just him trying to give Harry space, but it feels like a punch in the gut anyway. 

"Does anything help you when you get like this?" Louis asks softly, turning on his side to look at Harry. "Like, anything? Is there anything I can do, or anything I can get for you, is what I'm asking, I guess."

Harry shakes his head wordlessly. 

Louis sighs quietly. "Nothing?"

"A twelve-pack of beer," Harry says sharply, holding back a scoff. "Molly. Coke. Pills. Usually -- "

"Okay, Harry, not what I fucking meant and you know it."

But Harry doesn't stop, because he's angry and frustrated and taking it out on one of the only people who give a fuck about him. He's not designed to be around people, he's decided. 

"Usually sex, but I haven't been this fucking insecure about my body in so fucking long, so I don't think that'd help anymore. Don't think I can pretend not to see how fucking disgusting people find it, how I find myself, which is just great because the only thing that people seem to stick around me for is sex, and my sex drive is completely gone," he chokes out a sob and trudges through it, "and not even Taylor makes me feel good right now, and that's so fucking stupid because she always helps, _always,_ and I'm so sick and tired of it taking everything from me, it takes _everything,_ Louis, and I," another sob, one that's harder to push through, "and I just wish it'd leave me with something. Just one fucking thing I can hold onto, and it doesn't, and I don't want to do this for the rest of my life. I just want to be fucking fine, and at this point I don't even think I know who _I am,_ and that's -- that's just fucking unfair, I think."

He's uncontrollably crying now, and he was stupid for talking over it because now it's hard to breathe, too. He closes his eyes and puts his hands over his face, trying to even out his breathing and to swallow down the cries. It's hard to do when all his brain can think is, _see? This is exactly why you can't be with him. Look how sad you just made him._

Louis lets Harry calm himself down, and when his eyes are only leaking quiet tears, that's when Louis finally speaks up. He sits up, dragging the blanket with him, and turns the lamp on, and oh fucking god, Louis' going to make him fucking talk about it. 

"Let me see you, please," Louis says gently, and Harry slowly takes his hands off his face and tucks them under the covers. He's shivering -- shaking? -- so he pulls them over him more, stealing a few inches from Louis. Harry doesn't look at him, though, and he's beyond grateful that Louis doesn't demand that he does. 

"There's so many things that you just said that we need to talk about, so -- "

Harry scoffs and looks away. "We don't need to talk about any of it. It's just the truth."

"Don't you hate being so angry all the time?" Louis asks, tone sharp, surprising Harry. Harry glances at him, kind of hurt. "I understand you can't control the sad part, but you don't have to be so mad at me all the time, do you?"

Harry doesn't have the energy to comfort Louis, to tell him that that's not true, that he's mad at himself, not Louis. 

"Please don't go back to doing drugs like you were before," Louis pleads. "And don't overdo the drinking either."

But it'd be so easy, wouldn't it, going to the club with Nick and getting so blindly high that he can't feel anything. 

"Harry, love. Please promise me you won't."

Louis sounds so fucking sad. 

"I won't," Harry whispers, not because he's sure it's the truth but because he doesn't want Louis sad like him. 

"Okay. Okay, good." He clears his throat, and Harry looks back up at the ceiling, bracing himself. "And I know," his voice catches, "I know that you can't fix body images overnight, but I -- I don't know if it means anything, but I think you're really fucking beautiful, H."

Harry twists away a bit, like it actually hurts being told that.

"You're literally gorgeous," Louis continues, and his voice still shakes. "I love everything about you, even the parts I haven't seen. Scars don't mean anything."

"They aren't just scars," Harry says, shaking his head. "It's not -- it's not what you think they look like. It's just a whole fucking mess, okay?" 

Sometimes he thinks that his thighs look like you put them through a shredder and then tried to sew the pieces back together with red thread. 

"I've seen them before," Louis reminds gently. "At your flat. I didn't think it was gross."

"They were all healed then."

"Not that time I walked in on you."

What the fuck is Louis trying to prove? 

"Well, it's probably double whatever you saw by now." It makes tears rush out of his eyes; he hates himself so, _so_ much. 

"I'm not trying to upset you more than you already are," Louis says quietly. He scoots forward hesitantly, and Harry looks over to him as a way of giving him permission. Louis reads it correctly and lies back down in bed, pulling Harry to his side. Harry goes willingly and sets his cheek on Louis' shoulder. "All I was saying is that I think you're really fucking beautiful."

Harry doesn't say anything and puts his hand on Louis' belly. Louis twists their fingers together loosely. 

"I don't think your friends use you for sex," Louis continues, and it's more hesitant this time, more defensive. Louis feels like he's being accused of something, and that's not what Harry meant, _shit._

"I know they don't," Harry acquiesces, because out of everything he said, that's the only thing that isn't true. Maybe it used to be true, but he hasn't had sex with Nick in ages and he and Taylor, Niall and Liam do others things more often than they have sex. 

"And I'm sorry that your depression is so immobilizing, Harry. Seriously. Nobody should have to go through that."

Harry feels a kick of anger that urges him to snap at Louis for saying that; he's not fucking invalid just because he's depressed, but. . . but it definitely prevents him from living normally, and he knows that's all Louis meant by it. 

_I'm not good enough for you_ , Harry wants to say, and he can't bring himself to. He knows Louis will deny it profusely, and Harry can't take being lied to. Maybe Louis thinks that Harry is good for him, but he's not and he never will be. Not like this, anyway. 

He does say it, the next morning before he slips out for work. 

"I'm not good enough for you, Lou," Harry says, hand and gaze on the doorknob. He doesn't want to look at Louis. "I don't think you deserve any of this. I think you need someone more like yourself."

"What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?" Louis asks, although he doesn't sound mad, he sounds hollow. Like someone who saw the hurt coming and didn't get out of the way, hoping for something to magically go right last minute.

-

Isolation is common among people who are depressed. 

Because it's hard to believe that other people can understand, because you're too sad to talk to anyone, because interacting with people starts to feel like a trap. Whatever the reason, it's dangerous, apparently. Humans are designed to interact; something about primitive instincts. Doing it will just make you feel worse. 

This is all according to a few links that Louis sends him exactly two weeks into Harry shutting Louis out again. _‘Shutting out’_ is probably too nice to say: he's ignoring him. He's hurting him, not intentionally but consciously, and that's shit. He shouldn't get to sugarcoat it. He hasn't even talked to Taylor in a few days, and he knows that it's only a matter of time before she comes to him and demands that he open up to her. 

He doesn't believe that isolating himself is making him feel any worse. Maybe it's worsening how he feels about himself, but it's not making him feel any more depressed or disoriented than he did before. He's created a safe cocoon where he is all by himself. The only one who can hurt him is him, and that's how he wants it to be right now. 

And he's still managing to go to work everyday, and he's eating dinner with Nick every other night, so it's not complete isolation. It's not as dramatic as Louis is making it out to be. 

He doesn't ignore Louis' texts -- his stupid, unhelpful links -- because Louis' probably at that point where he's losing his mind with worry, and Harry doesn't want to torture him. He doesn't want Louis to hurt at all, that's the whole point of this. So he replies with a short, _an interesting read, thanks_ , and he doesn't realize how snarky and rude it sounds until he's already pressed for it. 

He leaves it alone anyway, hoping that Louis will take it the way he meant it. About an hour later, Louis texts back. 

_Wasn't trying to give you good reading material mate. Please just fucking call me back. I'm about done with these games Harry. I'm not your safety net._

And shit, that about sends his anxiety levels through the roof. He doesn't want Louis feeling like that, and he doesn't want it to be true, but maybe it is because Harry fucking loves that he will always have Louis to go back to, no matter what. He knows that now. Christmas solidified that for him again. And maybe he abuses that, he doesn't really know. What he does know is that he wasn't planning on ignoring Louis forever this time, that he would go back to him when he was better (although, he still hasn't defined what better means to him). 

Louis' right, though. Harry can't just pick and choose when he wants to be in Louis' life. 

Knowing that's true and knowing what to do about it are entirely different things, and the only thing Harry knows how to do is cut, it seems, and it's just cruel, the universe sending Taylor pounding at the front door less than a minute after he's finished making new marks on his skin. He's a bit woozy and not at all in the right mental state to deal with the anger Taylor is going to bring him. 

At first, Harry can't convince himself to leave his bathroom. It's locked. Maybe he could just hide in here. She'd probably think he's dead though, and he doesn't want that, so he waits until Nick and Taylor's voices die out before standing up and getting out of the bathroom. He kind of wants to crawl into bed, although that'd look pathetic, wouldn't it? He doesn't want her pity.

So he sits on the edge of the bed and turns on the TV, waiting for her to come in and chew him out. 

He wishes that people could care about him without making him talk about his feelings all the time. 

His thighs are stinging from the fresh cuts, and it hurts, and it gives Harry something to hold onto as he waits for her to come to his room. When she does, he gives her a small smile and looks her over -- she doesn't look angry, just concerned, and maybe Harry can get out of being held accountable for this. 

"You can't just ignore me when you feel like it," she says. "You can't pick and choose what days you will let me be there for you. You know I worry about you, especially when you aren't doing well, and I think it's really fucked up to shut me out." She takes a deep breath and smooths a wrinkle out in the front of her blazer. She must've just got off of work. "I understand that you aren't in a talking mood, but you have to at least give me a sign of life every few hours. Just a small, 'Hey, I'm okay'. I've told you to do that for me so many times before, and I don't see why you won't."

Harry swallows thickly and looks back at the TV. "Because I'm not going to off myself, and I wish you would trust me on that."

"I don't just worry about that," Taylor says incredulously. She lets out a quiet sigh, shuts his door, and comes over to sit by him. The bed dips slightly, making him lean towards her weight, and his heart jumps a bit from being close to her. Being this close to anyone, really. He hasn't had sex in weeks, which is a huge red flag for him. "I worry that you're not eating enough, or you're sleeping too much, or you're hurting yourself. And yeah, I do worry you'd do something permanent, and you say that you wouldn't ever do that, but when I haven't heard from you in four days, I start to doubt it."

That's fair. They talk all the time, and Harry would be worried about her if she just went silent on him, too. 

"Okay," he says. "I'm sorry. You're right."

"And if you've been ignoring me for two weeks, I might start to think that you don't care about me at all."

She's been talking to Louis. How, Harry doesn't know, but he doesn't fucking like it. He hates it so much. Not because they've been talking about him behind his back, that's fine, it's just -- he's ashamed of what he's doing to Louis, and he wishes that he could just do what he thinks is best for himself without hurting other people. 

"I know how much you care about him," Taylor says gently, "and I shouldn't have to tell you isn’t how you treat the people you care about."

Harry doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to talk about Louis or his depression or fucking anything, and he's sick and fucking tired of everyone wanting to talk about his fucked up brain chemistry as if he doesn't have any idea of what's going on in his own head. 

He doesn't lash out, though, because she's right: he can't hurt the people he cares about just because he's hurting himself. 

"I think I'm going to lie down," he says. "If, um. I kind of want to be alone."

She sighs again, louder this time. "Haz, babe. Come on."

"Taylor, I -- "

"Your sister's daughter is almost two months old and you haven't talked to her in weeks," she snaps, and Harry twists to look at her, shocked. "There's no way you want to be missing all that, so can you please stop fucking doing this to yourself and the people around you, because it's scary and it's unfair and -- " she takes a deep breath. "And I know that you can't control it, to a certain degree, but I desperately need you to know that you're going to get to a time in your life where you regret letting yourself go this long without getting help and missing out on your entire life."

Harry wants to cry. Is going to, when she leaves. Taylor's never forced the idea of professional help on him. She's suggested it, and she's begged him to try it, but she's _never_ been so demanding about it. 

"So you need a therapist," she continues, "so what? Millions of people see a therapist. And I know, I _know_ , how hard going there will be for you, but you have to go for yourself and for everyone else in your life who is tired of missing you even when you're right fucking here."

"Taylor, please stop."

"No, Harry,” she snaps, looking beyond irritated. “No. Louis' right. You need help, and me and Nick and Niall and whoever else in your life who isn't pestering you into getting it are wrong. Being complacent while you suffer is _wrong._ "

"Yeah, get the fuck out," he snaps, standing up. God, he wants to scream. He's going to fucking scream. 

"Harry -- "

"Get the fuck out," he seethes, throwing his hands up. "Go talk to Louis some more, let him feed you some more fucking bullshit. God, Taylor."

"It is _not_ bullshit. He's right."

"You've never done this to me before," Harry says, a little breathless. "You've never, _ever_ made me feel -- feel like I'm crazy or something, or like all of this is my fault, and I've never felt like you were attacking me about this before, and -- "

She interrupts him. "That's not what I'm trying to do at all. That's -- I don't think I'm attacking you."

"Well, it feels like you are. It feels like everyone wants me to be someone different."

He doesn't realize how much he believes that until he says it. It does feel true, though. Everyone seems to want more for him and that is leading everyone to wanting more _from_ him, like he's not enough the way he is. 

She looks sad, and Harry shakes his head. "Can you please just go? This conversation hasn't been beneficial to either of us."

She doesn't want to, it's obvious, but she nods anyway and stands. Maybe she realizes she was too harsh on him, because she was. They hug briefly, and when she pulls back, she asks him to call Louis. 

"I can tell you don't want to lose him," Taylor says. "So don't."

She leaves, and Harry goes back to the bathroom to cut again, and then he takes a shower to calm his mind. As much as he can, anyway, which isn't very much. The weed he smokes afterwards helps more than the shower did, and when he feels like he can handle talking to someone, he presses open the messaging app to text Louis. 

_Hey lou. I know I've been shit for a while, and I'm sorry, but sometimes I just need space. From everyone, not just you. I get that that's selfish and unfair, I do. I take you for granted, I know that too. I'm sorry. But would it be wrong of me to ask for some more space? Just until I feel a bit better. I don't like being around people when I am like this._

It takes Louis forty-five minutes to respond, and Harry's halfway through an episode of _The Great British Bake Off_. He pauses the show on his computer to read Louis' text with a clearer head. 

_Okay. Thanks for talking to me. Just miss you on my couch watching crap telly with me._

God, Harry's heart hurts. He can tell Louis' still upset with him, and that's fair, that's _completely_ fair, but Harry wishes it wasn't the case. He doesn't want Louis feeling sad or used or anything like that. So he forces himself to sit up, take a deep breath and send, _That's what I'm doing right now. Suppose you could join if you wanted x_. 

He doesn't want Louis to come over -- he very firmly wants to be by himself -- although he can't take Louis being mad at him right now, and if that means having Louis over to watch TV with him, then so be it. He's pretty sure Louis will be okay with just that, that he won't expect Harry to want to talk or kiss or anything other than watch TV. 

Fortunately, Louis seems content doing just that. He's at Nick's house in less than a half hour, and he doesn't ask Harry how he's doing or give him shit for ignoring him; all he does is slip into bed with Harry and pull him to his chest, tight but not tight enough. Harry melts into him easily, almost _too_ easily, and he's asleep within fifteen minutes. 

-

Harry doesn't land on his feet again until the end of March. 

It's a miracle he hasn't destroyed everything around him by then, that he still has any friends left or a job or a roommate, because there were days he felt like he was filled with venom and others that had him so disoriented that he didn't do anything other than lie in bed and count to ten, then twenty, thirty, forty. . . 

Louis came over about three nights a week, just to sit and watch TV with him. Sometimes he came over just to fall asleep next to him, which was nice. And it's not like everyday was terrible; sometimes he felt good enough to talk to him for more than five minutes or to play video games with him, and a couple of times he went over to Louis', and once they went out to lunch together. It's not like Harry's a complete lost cause when he's in the midst of a depression, it's just. It's hard to find any positives, sometimes. 

Now, though. Now, he's feeling better. Lighter, almost. And it's not like a switch randomly went on and he felt okay; it's been gradually getting better for about a week or two now. Today's the first day he's felt good enough to say that maybe he's out of it entirely. 

It's good, it is, but now that means he has to call his sister and start looking into cheap therapy offices nearby, the two most important things he's pushed off for far too long. And he doesn't have work today, so he's decided that he has to accomplish, or at least make an honest attempt to, both of those things. 

He starts with Gemma first. He thinks about texting her first to lessen the blow, and then decides against it. Calling her seems like the only right thing to do. Before he does that, he eats a fourth of a weed brownie Nick made yesterday -- made, as in cooked, because recently Nick has decided that he needs to dip his toes into this whole weed-and-food business, and their kitchen has been a disaster every since -- and lets it do its work of taking the edge off. 

She answers on the first try, which Harry absolutely did not expect, and his heart plummets at her sharp, "Hello?"

He closes his eyes and pulls the blankets around him tighter. He's in bed, laying down, because he thought it'd be better than pacing around. "Hey, Gems, um. Hey."

"Are you okay?" she asks, sighing quietly. So the only reason she picked up was because she thought he was hurt or in danger. 

"Yes, I'm fine. Um, I just wanted to talk?"

There's a long pause. "About?"

"About you," he says softly. "And Natalie. I want to catch on what I've missed."

She scoffs loudly. "Why? So you can pretend like you care and then ignore me for months on end again? I don't know if I feel like wasting my time for that."

"Because I want to get to know my niece," he says quickly, scared she's going to hang up on him. "And to know how you're doing and everything. The both of you. I know I promised I wouldn't be a fucking dick and then I was anyway, but -- and I know I don't deserve anything from you, but I was really hoping we could just talk."

"Why now? Why not when she was born, or after, or a month ago? Why now?"

He's not going to tell her that he wasn't doing well mentally because that's an excuse. He could've called her. He could have. He chose not to, and that's on him, not his depression. 

"Don't know, if I'm honest," he says quietly. "But I'm hoping that today is as good a day as any. That it's not too late."

"It's -- " her voice is sharp, angry, and _no_ , Harry thinks, _no. Don't tell me it's too late_. "It's not," she says, now deflated. "It's not." She lets out a quiet breath. "Just -- are you well? Because I'm constantly worried that you aren't, and that's why you never want to talk."

"Yeah, Gem. I'm fine. I don't want to talk about me, though. I want to hear about you and your baby girl. How is she?"

Gemma breaks into a long, happy rant about her baby; Natalie's a grumpy sleeper, and she spits up on Steven more than anybody else and he's convinced she's playing favorites, and she already has a full head of hair. He listens to everything she says intently, trying to memorize it.

Eventually, she comes to a natural pause, and Harry opens his eyes. "I promise I'll come and see her," Harry says. "I don't know when -- Louis can't get that much time off of work a lot, but, like. When we can, we'll come."

Now that he thinks about it, he never actually asked Louis if he would take him back to Holmes Chapel to meet his niece, but he's pretty sure Louis won't mind. Hopes so, anyway.

"Okay," she says. "That sounds good. Whenever is fine. Just, Harry. . . " she lets out a deep breath. "I'm your sister, and I love you, but I told you back in December that I'm not going to let you just walk in and out of her life whenever you feel like it."

He nods to himself. "I know that. I know. I won't, promise. And I know that a promise like that means nothing coming from me, but I seriously will try my hardest not to keep doing this. I'm working on it."

"Good," she says softly. "That's good."

They talk for a little while and then hang up, and Harry sort of regrets pressuring himself into doing two hard things on the same day. Getting a therapy appointment in order isn't as simple as making an appointment; he wants a therapist that has some trust placed in them, whether that comes from a recommendation from Louis or someone else. He wants them to be a female, preferably, but he won't shit himself if it's a guy. And he also needs to talk to Louis about what sort of stuff will happen, because he's not walking in there blindly. 

Louis won't know all the specifics, Harry knows that. He's an ER nurse, not a psychologist. However, he also knows that if Louis can tell him anything, _anything_ , that'll provide him with at least an ounce of comfort, it'll help far more than anything he's read online has. 

He gives himself an hour before he'll call Louis. He knows that Louis doesn't work today; he was supposed to go over to Louis' this afternoon, but he canceled last night because he'd rather have this conversation over the phone than face to face. He's sure Louis will understand. 

In that hour, he has a wank, smokes a bit outside, and texts Niall. It all seems to help ease some of his anxiety equally. He doesn't cut, because even though he kind of wants to, he can resist the urge and cutting would only make him more emotional during an already emotionally-charged conversation. 

_Hey, call me?_

He stares at that message he sent to Louis for four minutes. He wishes he just texted him his questions, although that would be pointless because Louis would call him anyway. Still, the longer it takes Louis to reply, the more the anxiety in Harry's chest grows. 

When Louis does call him, Harry doesn't waste any time in getting to the point. He refuses to let himself put this off any longer. 

"Hey, H," Louis says. "What's up?"

Harry takes a breath and steels himself. He has his laptop open in front of him in case he wants to look something up on his own, and he stares at the bright screen of it as he says, "I have a few -- um. I just have a few questions. About, like. About counselling."

Counselling sounds less daunting than therapy, he supposes. It feels nicer on his tongue. 

"Oh," Louis says after a short pause. "Are you -- are you thinking about going?"

"I need to," Harry says quietly, setting his head on his hand. "I -- a few weeks ago, Taylor said there is going to come a day that I regret not helping myself sooner, and I don't want that. I don't want to hate myself years from now for being a pussy about this."

Louis makes a noise. "Hey. No. It's totally reasonable that the idea of therapy sounds scary to you. You're not being a pussy."

Harry takes another deep breath and shakes his head. "Anyway, I know you probably don't know a lot of stuff about it, but I -- whatever you can help me with, I think I'd really appreciate it."

He's been reciting what he was going to say to Louis during this conversation for a long, long time. 

"Yeah, that's fine. Anything I don't know I can text someone who will, so. Shoot."

And Harry wrote his questions down last night while tucked in bed. He felt stupid for doing it at the time, but now he's grateful. "Um, it's not -- it's not going to be, like, crazy expensive, is it?"

"No," Louis says immediately. "I mean, is it going to cost a bit? Yeah, but -- it shouldn't be anything you can't afford. And if you can't, if the money is stressing you out, do not hesitate even for a second to tell me and I'll help out. Same with your medications, same with anything else. Don't be scared to ask me for help, okay? I mean it."

Harry looks down at his notebook. "You think I'll need medication?"

There's a long pause. "I -- " Louis stops himself and starts again. "I think it's a possibility, yeah."

"Okay," Harry mumbles, not sure how he feels about that. "Um. Do you know any therapists I could see? Like, do you have any friends or something. . . I don't -- I don't know. Do you?"

"I can get a list of recommendations from people at work tomorrow," Louis says. He sounds eager and nervous at the same time, like he's scared he's going to scare Harry off. He might. "One of my mates sees a counselor, so I can ask him, too."

Harry bites down on his bottom lip. This is going better than he thought it would; it's not painless, but it's. . . not the scariest thing Harry's ever had to face. Now, anyway. It'll be a completely different story when he actually has to go. 

"Do you know what they'll ask me on the first appointment?"

"I'd assume you won't jump straight into things, but I don't really know," Louis tells him. "Probably, like. Probably just what made you want to go to therapy and what you're experiencing. They'll probably ask about your family history. And I know your dad never went to a doctor to be diagnosed, but you should definitely let them know that he's not mentally stable."

"I don't have to tell them everything, right?"

Louis lets out a shaky breath. "I mean, no. I suppose not. If something is a big stressor for you, and you don't want to talk about it, I suppose that's fair, but . . I think it'll help you more if you're open with them completely. You don't have to tell them _everything,_ but don't hide things from them because you're scared."

And now there's only one question left on Harry's lined sheet of paper, and it's the one that scares him most. He's scared of the answer and scared that Louis is going to lie to him about it. He's read things online about it, and sometimes the lines seem to get blurred. "And, um." His throat is suddenly hot and tight. "If I, um, if I tell them about -- about, like." It feels impossible to say for some reason, and if he can't even say it to Louis, how will he talk about it with a stranger?

"About your self-harm?" Louis asks gently, and Harry nods to himself.

"Yeah. Yeah. If I tell them about that, are they going to, like, call the police on me? Or, like, take me to a mental hospital?" He feels lightheaded now, and he reaches for a pillow behind him so he can clutch onto it. "I read online that, like, they won't break confidentiality unless they think you're a danger to yourself or someone else, but. . . am I? Am I considered to be a danger to myself?"

An involuntary rush of air releases itself once the words are finally out, and he'd call it a sigh of relief, although it felt a bit too intense to be that.

Louis takes a second or two to respond, and Harry can think is, _please don't lie to me_.

"I think they mean a danger to your life," Louis says, all gentle and soothing like. "I think that is leaning more towards patients with suicidal thoughts and stuff. Which. . . do you?"

"Not usually."

"What does that mean, exactly? I just want to know."

"I mean no," Harry says, fiddling with the tag on the pillow. "Rarely. And I would never actually do it, so I don't consider myself suicidal, no."

Louis lets out a breath. _That's_ a sigh of relief. "Okay. Okay, good. I think you should be fine then." He sighs again. "If they ever do want to hospitalize you, it's truly not as scary as it sounds, alright? You -- "

"I literally will never bring it up if you think it's even a -- "

"Hey, no. Listen to me, alright?" 

Harry stays quiet, panic still hammering in his heart. 

"I'm just saying, love. They take you to a hospital and you're usually just put on suicide watch. It's not, like, some big thing that the movies make it out to be. Unless you're actively trying to hurt yourself, there's no need for, like, sedation or handcuffs or safety bands or any of that."

Harry waits patiently for a pause, and when it comes, he says, "I know you're trying to help, but that kind of just freaks me out more."

"Don't let it," Louis rushes out. "Forget I said that. If you aren't suicidal, your therapist won't break confidentiality and reach out to outside sources."

Harry nods once. He doesn't feel so confident anymore. "Okay."

"I'm serious; they legally can't. And if you don't trust me, ask your therapist beforehand. They'll let you know what are red flags to them."

That. . . is probably something Harry wouldn't ask, but it still comforts him nonetheless. He stares down at his asked list of questions and tries to wrack his brain of anything else he might want to know. This feels like the only opportunity he has to get his hands on information, even though it's not. 

"Hey, Haz?"

Harry hums quietly. 

"I'm really proud of you for this, alright? I know this isn't easy. I know it's going against every single one of your instincts, but, like. Just, I'm proud of you."

He hasn't actually done anything yet, but, "Thanks." It makes him feel good anyway. 

-

Since Harry's mental state is mostly off the rocks again, things between him and Louis steadily start to get more intense. It's almost like they're properly dating, only without the fucking and the label. They are at each other's places more often than not, and they text constantly, and sometimes they even go out places together. Those times are few and far between; maybe once every two weeks, they'll go out to eat or go to the mall or something, but Louis understands that being around that many people stresses Harry out unnecessarily. 

It's fucking annoying. Harry could go out to bars and clubs and to random people's houses for years and not feel a thing, yet going to the movies with Louis makes his skin crawl. And yeah, maybe there's less drugs and alcohol involved, less things to take the panic away, but it still sucks. 

He officially broke off sex with Taylor the other night. He felt guilty telling her that maybe they shouldn't do that anymore, partly because she's his best friend and partly because he's scared Louis would see that at Harry making it exclusive with him, and maybe Louis isn't ready for that. So he doesn't tell Louis, and Taylor doesn't seem to care at all. 

And therapy has been put on hold. Again. He's working up towards it, he is. He has a therapist lined up and everything, it's just. Going there is the hard part. 

And he's still struggling with cutting. He's doing it once or twice a week, which isn't terrible, but -- it's not good either. It's still bad. It's still disturbing and disgusting to him, and it still has a death grip on his self-esteem. 

But things are going well with Louis, and with Gemma, and that's -- he's trying to focus on the good. Even if that’s maybe a lousy excuse, he tries to cling to it anyway. 

-

Harry schedules his first therapy appointment on the tenth of May, and he doesn't tell anyone about it. He doesn't want to stress himself out anymore by talking about it, and he plans on just getting it over and done with and then calling Louis afterwards to tell him about it. 

And if he doesn't go, well. Then nobody except him and the receptionist who has to cancel his appointment will know, and no one can be disappointed in him. 

That's exactly what ends up happening. He gets in his car at nine o'clock sharp, turns on the ignition, and immediately thinks _nope, this isn't happening_. Not today. A different day will be better, he thinks, and he calls the clinic to back out before he can force himself to go. 

He schedules a new appointment for the twentieth of May. He thinks that will be better, that the outcome will be different. The first try was just a bad day; he can get there. He can bring himself to do this, he can. 

Except he can't. He can't do it. It's almost fascinating; he wants to, and he knows he needs to, yet when he actually has to go, it's like his brain folds in on itself and pretends like it's always looked that way. He convinces himself that no, it's alright, he doesn't actually need to go, and to get out of the car. 

He makes another appointment for the last day of May, and to make sure he goes, he asks Taylor to be the one to take him. He'd ask Louis, but he knows Louis will be far more openly disappointed in him if he chickens out last minute than Taylor would. 

The plan works. Taylor gets him there. She even walks him into the building and stays with him as he waits for his name to be called. He waits with his head in his hands, with his knee shaking up and down, and with Taylor's hand firm on his arm. 

There are other people waiting here as well, others without anybody sitting next to them, babying them. Others who probably didn't cancel their appointment at the last minute, twice. Others who are much younger than him, and much older than him, and who look nothing like him. 

The door opens, and a young man stays by the doorway. He's going to call out a name. Harry braces himself, prays that it's not him. It hasn't been him the last two times, so it's not going to be him now. He has a little more time. It's not him, it's not him, it's not -- 

"Mr. Styles?"

He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. Shit. 

He doesn't make a scene. He forces himself to stand, to give Taylor a weak smile, and to walk to the door. It's like he's not even himself right now, like he's flicked off every switch inside his head and he's on full-blown survival mode right now. He's only doing this because backing out right now would be unacceptable and embarrassing as all hell. 

The man introduces himself as Daniel and guides him to a room. The office is much smaller and less personal than Harry thought it would be; it doesn't look all that inviting. It just looks like an office. There's a chair he's meant to sit in, so he does, and then he's waiting again. 

After twenty minutes, he's near tears and on the brink of fleeing. Making him sit here seems cruel. It feels like he's a baby who's wet his diaper and his parents are making him sit in it to learn a lesson. 

The door opens, and Harry blinks back the tears and looks up. There's a woman; short, petite, dark-skinned, in her thirties, maybe a little older, he can't tell. She's got on pretty red lipstick, close to the shade that Taylor likes to wear. For some reason, that comforts him a little. 

"Hi," she says, cheerful and animated. "I'm Dr. Holly Watson. You're Harry, right?"

He nods and lets out a nervous sound that dies too soon to count as a laugh. "Yeah."

"Well, it's nice to meet you." She comes to sit across from him, and Harry catches himself instinctively sitting back, like he's trying to get away from her. She's probably trained to notice these things, and it makes him even more antsy. 

"So," she says, smiling at him. He thinks it's supposed to be warm and comforting. It's not, although she does have a pretty smile. "Tell me a little about yourself."

And God, there's nothing more he hates than that question. 

"Um, I'm twenty-seven. I grew up in Holmes Chapel." He pauses, running his fingernail harshly over his cuticle. "I have a sister."

She nods as he talks, and when he finishes, she doesn't seem bothered that he only listed three insignificant details about himself. It makes him a little less tense. "What are some of your hobbies?"

Alright. Second most hated question. They aren't off to a good start.

His brain goes blank, which makes him panic more. He needs to be thinking right now, needs to find an answer than he can say that doesn't sound stupid or fake. "I like to watch movies," he says cautiously, his voice getting a little higher towards the end. "I guess I like flowers? I don't -- I don't know, really."

Again, she's patient. "Why do you like flowers? That sounds interesting."

"I work at a flower shop, and, um. Yeah. They're just pretty."

He cringes, his fingers digging harsher at his nail beds. 

"Do you like your job?" she asks. There's a clipboard in her hands. He wonders if she's supposed to be writing any of this down. Maybe he hasn't said anything interesting yet. 

"It's okay."

"Just okay?"

"It's something I can do," he says after a brief moment of wondering if he should say that. It sounds a bit sad, but he supposes that's what he's here for. To be honest. 

That seems to gain her interest, but she doesn't comment on it yet. She lifts the top sheet of paper up and says, "So, it says here that you were prescribed Ambien to help you with your trouble sleeping a few years ago. Are you still taking it?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes."

"How often?"

"Maybe twice a week."

She nods. "And is that because your sleeping problems have improved, or. . . ?"

Again, he hesitates on how honest he should be. Again, he chooses the truth. If he tells her too much and he gets scared, he doesn’t have to come back. "I, um. I used to take it more often, but the last time I needed a refill, they said I had to go see my doctor again, and I -- um. Just not a big fan of doctors, I guess."

"So you're saying you want to take it more often?"

He shrugs again. "I mean, yeah. I don't have trouble sleeping all the time, but when I do, I'd like it if I could just take it and not have to worry about it."

The rest of the appointment goes like that; her asking questions, him answering. Sometimes he struggles with how to answer, and his stress levels don't lessen any, but nonetheless, it gets easier as the hour passes. The only time that it gets particularly difficult is when she asks him why he came here. All he tells her is that he had a rough childhood -- and when she asks him to expand on that, he says his father was mentally and physically abusive -- and he's been having trouble coping with it ever since. He also tells her that he struggles pretty badly with depression, and that's it. He doesn't mention the cutting, and he's not going to until he feels like he can trust her. 

Afterwards, Taylor and him go out to eat, and it kind of makes him feel like a child going out for ice cream after a doctor's appointment, but it's okay. She doesn't pressure him to talk about anything, and he just listens to her talk about work and her mum. 

She drops him off at Louis', because even though Louis won't be home for another few hours, he still wants to see him tonight. He has a key now -- he's had it since the beginning of May -- so he lets himself in after letting Louis know he's there. Louis won't care, anyway. 

He takes a shower and changes into some of Louis' bigger clothes, and then he gets settled on Louis' couch. He realizes how comfortable he feels here, and around Louis in general, and it makes him happy. 

-

He tells Louis about the therapy appointment that night, when they're laying in bed after giving each other rushed handjobs. Louis' half asleep, laying on his side facing Harry while Harry lies on his back, and Harry decides to just say it. He wants Louis to know, even if he doesn't really want to be the one to tell him. 

"I had a therapy appointment this morning," he says. As the words come out and they sit up in the air, he closes his eyes. Louis shifts closer next to him, so close now that he can feel his breath against his bare chest. (He's probably going to have to put his shirt back on before he goes to sleep, because there's a scar near his hip and he's paranoid that Louis will see it if he shifts a certain way.)

"You did?"

Harry nods. 

"And you went?"

Harry nods again. 

"That's good," Louis says, and he sounds happy. Maybe even a bit proud, Harry can't be sure. "How did it go?"

"Okay." Harry shrugs. "I don't know."

There's a pause, and Harry glances at him, unsure of what it means. Louis sits up on his elbow and reaches out to set his hand on Harry's cheek. "Do you want to talk about it? I want to hear, and I'll listen, but if you don't want to talk about it, I can live with it."

"No," Harry says honestly, grabbing Louis' wrist. "I'm trying to avoid thinking about it, to be honest. If I overthink it, I'll just stress myself out and won't want to go back, you know?"

Louis nods, smiling. "That's fair. Thanks for telling me, then."

Harry closes his eyes again, not being able to look at Louis when he says this. He runs his thumb over Louis' wrist and whispers, "Kind of just wanted to give you something to be proud of me for. Feels like I'm a hard person to be around sometimes, and I just. . . I just wanted to give you a win." He presses his thumb down into Louis' wrist bone. "Give us a win, I suppose."

"You're not a hard person to be around, love," Louis says. "You're my favorite person to be around."

Harry's heart stutters, and he doesn't respond. 

"We do need to talk about us, eventually," Louis tells him. 

"I know. It'd do me good, I think, to know what we're doing."

"Want to talk now?" Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head and opens his eyes. He blinks at Louis a few times before saying, "Can you please just tell me if we're dating or not?" It surprises him, and all this honesty is either a result from being tired or from feeling good about himself because he went to therapy. 

Louis gives him a puzzled look. "That's something we need to figure out together, babe. I can't just tell you, like -- we're in this together, Harry. I don't call all the shots."

"Okay," Harry says slowly. He understands that. "Then I guess, like. Do you _want_ to be boyfriend?"

"I want you to not sound like the idea of me loving you is absurd," Louis tells him, frowning. He strokes Harry's hair, and Harry's fingers stay tight around his wrist. "I want to be in a relationship with you, yes. But I also want to make sure you are ready to be in a relationship. It takes work, you know, and I don't. . . I don't mean to sound like a dick, but any relationship you've been in is the exact opposite of how I want ours to look."

"Oli was the only person I was ever actually in a relationship with," Harry says, and then stops that train of thought and nods. He gets Louis’ point. "Okay. That's fair. I don't want you to be like him, either." He cringes at how weak it makes him sound. He takes a deep breath and glances off to the side. 

"I promise I won't ever do anything to intentionally hurt you," Louis says, "and, again, we need to talk about this more, but I can tell you're not in the mood right now, so we can put in on hold for now, alright? Sound good?"

Harry nods, and then says, "But I think -- I think. Like, I -- " he lets out a frustrated sigh, and Louis quietly tells him to take his time. "I think I do want you to be my boyfriend," he gets out, in bits and pieces, and as soon as he says it, his chest tightens up and he shakes his head. "Lou, I'm not -- I'm not good at this."

"I want you to be my boyfriend too, alright? So that's settled. No more stressful topics tonight. Just sleep."

But Harry knows that he overwhelmed himself too much to sleep now, and he doesn't admit it to Louis. He just nods and lets Louis cuddle into him. Louis falls asleep quickly, too quickly, and then Harry's left to dance around with the thoughts in his head. 

At two in the morning, Harry's lying in bed with his chest heaving and his teeth clenched shut, his nostrils flared and his eyes closed. It's not a panic attack. It might be, but he doesn't like calling it that unless he feels like he completely loses control. He hasn't yet. He's still thinking semi-coherently, and he tries to hold onto that. 

He wakes Louis because of how hard he's holding him, and he doesn't realize he was digging his fingernails into Louis' hip until Louis pries his fingers off of him. 

Louis' immediately stressed and worried, and Harry tries to tell him that he's seriously okay, and that it's not going to be anything larger than struggling to breathe properly for a little bit, but that doesn't make sense to Louis. To a normal person. So, as Louis is rubbing his back and telling him to breathe like that does anything, he asks Louis to get him a glass of water. 

He's back so quickly that Harry almost laughs. 

"I'm fine," Harry tries to promise, and he knows it's not very convincing because even though he's not breathing as shallowly anymore, his hands have begun to shake a bit. 

Louis frowns. "You're having a panic attack."

"I think it's an anxiety attack," Harry says, shaking his head. "I -- I don't know the difference, actually. Guess I can ask my therapist next time I see her."

"You couldn't breathe right,” Louis says, frowning. “You're _still_ not breathing right."

"It was nothing like it was when we were kids, and if I survived those, I think I'll be fine."

And it's the truth: Harry's panic attacks in high school were genuinely terrifying. They lessened a bit over time, but they didn't really start showing an improvement until he quit doing drugs and started getting adequate sleep and all that. He wishes someone told him sooner than taking certain drugs would make his anxiety worse. 

Louis quietly asks him that he takes a sleeping pill before he goes back to sleep, and Harry complies because it'll give Louis a bit of peace of mind. 

-

Harry tells Holly -- he asked to call her by her first name to make it feel less formal, and she easily complied; it's getting easier to ask her for things -- that he self-harms on their seventh session together. Needless to say, she's surprised. She must've thought Harry wasn't holding anything back, because he hasn't been, not really. The only things that are currently blacklisted topics are university and self-harm, and she didn't know that that was blacklisted because he hasn't told her about it yet. 

She asked him once, on their second session, if he ever intentionally harmed himself, and he easily lied to her and told her no. He'd been hoping she'd bring it up again herself, that he wouldn't have to, but she hasn't, and last night he broke his eleven day streak of not cutting (he was trying to get to two weeks; small goals help him start somewhere) and sliced three more lines into his skin. 

He told Louis, mostly because he started crying at his flat because he felt so bad about himself, and Louis gently encouraged him to bring it up today. 

"What's on your mind today?" she asks, like always. "Have you had a chance to try out any of the breathing exercises I showed you?"

"Yeah, actually. Um. They helped, a bit, but that's -- " he glances at the clock. Maybe he should wait until there's only a few minutes left of the meeting so he can admit to and then make his escape. That seems childish, though. And he genuinely wants help with this. He glances down at his fingers and takes a deep breath. 

"You seem stressed," she observes. "Everything okay?"

He shakes his head once. 

"We can talk about it. Whatever it is, it's nothing we can't work through."

"I don't know about that," he says, leaning back in the chair. But that makes him feel exposed, vulnerable, so he hunches back over on himself. "I've been, um. I've been dealing with this since I was sixteen."

A million thoughts probably run through her head, or maybe they don't. Maybe she doesn't care and just wishes he'd hurry it up. 

"Take your time," she says gently, and he nods. He already knows how he wants to admit to it: by taking the blame off himself, essentially. He just can't get the words out. 

He does, eventually. 

"In my last year of school, like. Oli was the only thing I had. And we, um. We already talked about how he introduced me to drugs and stuff, but, like -- " he takes a deep breath. The words aren't coming out smoothly like he wants them to. "There was this time. I was really upset about my family, and -- and he showed me something that'd help. Help me, like, take my mind off stuff." He risks a glance at her, but he doesn't get a good enough look at her face to see what she's thinking. "He gave me my first razor blade, and I haven't been able to stop cutting since."

The silence that follows that is terrifying, and it feels like it lasts forever. Harry scrambles to fix it; _don't send me away, don't call the cops, don't tell on me._

"I don't want to die," he says hurriedly, and now he has to look at her. She looks steady, unfazed. He's still so, so scared. "I'm not suicidal. I -- I never have been, not really, and I -- it's just, I want to stop, and I can't, and I -- that's why I came here, pretty much. That's why Louis wanted me to come here. But I don't," he voice has been reduced to a whimper, "I don't want to get in trouble."

"You're not in trouble," she says immediately, voice even. "You know we have a confidentiality agreement, Harry. You know that you can tell me anything. The only time I have to take our conversation out of this room is when you're a threat to yourself or someone else."

"I don't want to die," he repeats. "I'm not a threat to myself, I'm not, so please, _please_ don't -- "

"I'm not going to," she says. She's rarely ever interrupted him, but she probably doesn't want him flinging himself into a panic attack. "I want you to discuss this with me further, if you can. It's just me and you, Harry."

"I want to stop, but I don't know how." He squeezes his fingers together painfully. "It was like -- for the longest time, I only really cut when Oli was around, but I haven't talked to him in so long and I haven't been able to stop this time, and I don't know _why."_

"What has helped you stop before?"

"I just could, I don't know," he says. "It wasn't easy, but I -- I just stopped, I don't know. I think it's too much of a habit now."

She gives him a small smile. "Any habit can be broken."

They talk about it for the entire hour. How it's progressed over the years, how it makes him feel about himself, how it's impacting his relationship with Louis. He tells her that they're doing really, really good, but he just wishes he could give all of himself to Louis, and he knows he won't be able to do that until he stops and his thighs heal. He tells her about the burn, and that seems to worry her, he can see it, so he tries to backtrack the best he can. It doesn't work, but she doesn't call the psych ward to tell them to open up a room, so he supposes it's alright, her knowing. 

He starts crying at the end of the session, and it's out of relief. 

-

It takes so, so long and so, so much effort for Harry to even stop cutting for two weeks. 

It's embarrassing, the amount of things Holly tries with him that don't work. At first, she seemed to think if they talked about it, if she gave him a different avenue to vent out his emotions, then he'd stop. He told her up-front that it wasn't going to help, but he tried it anyway. And then she tried giving him ways to distract himself, which helped slightly. Calling Louis or showing up randomly at his flat _is_ the most effective way for him not to hurt himself, but that's a lot of pressure to put on one person, and Louis isn't always around. 

So they move to 'alternative' methods. It's a bit more old-school, she tells him, and warns him that some psychologists don't agree with it anymore. He's thinking she’s going to recommend a goddamn lobotomy before she suggests having a rubber band and flicking it against his skin whenever he gets the urge. And it does help, although the rubber band on his wrist stands out as a red flag to others. A customer saw him flicking it against his skin a bit obsessively one morning, and she looked disgusted. 

But it does help. Old school or not, it does help soothe the urge. 

Ice also helps, oddly enough. When she told him how the burn of ice helped some people, he gave her a look. Just -- ice cubes? Seriously? But that helps as well. If he's at home, he'll go into the freezer, grab an ice cube, and then sit in bed while watching TV, holding it tightly in his hands. Sometimes, when the urge is really bad, he holds it against his thighs, and that helps too. Gets the bed all wet and his hands always turn bright red, but it helps. And when he's in public and the rubber band isn't working, he'll go to the bathroom and wash his hands with freezing cold water for a few seconds. He's pretty sure that one wouldn't work if he hadn't tried the ice cubes first, although it does now. 

He does that one evening when he's out on a date with Louis. An actual date, because ever since they officially started dating, Louis' been trying to take him out more. Not pressuring him at all, of course, and usually Harry picks the places they go (he has safe spots; a certain diner early in the morning, a specific movie theater twenty minutes farther out than the others closer to them, and sometimes he'll agree to walk around the mall, but only on days that aren't busy). 

He feels anxious as they wait for their food, so he excuses himself to the bathroom and washes his hands with freezing cold water for two whole minutes. And, well. It's _freezing_ , and he regrets it a bit afterwards because now he's _cold._

Harry returns to the booth, one tucked away in the back, and without having been asked, Louis grabs his hands and tries to warm them up. 

Times like this, when Louis makes him feel loved and cared for in areas Harry wishes he didn't love and care for in, he feels he needs to explain himself, or justify it, or make it less bad. "Fifteen days today," he whispers, and Louis fucking _grins._

The last time he reached two weeks, he didn't make it a day after. 

"Proud of you," Louis says, squeezing his fingers. 

Harry nods once. "Kind of proud of me, too."

Louis presses a long, gentle kiss to his temple, and Harry doesn't know what he did to deserve him.

-

Things go well for a while. 

The self-harm always stays a struggle, but besides that, he's doing well. He's seeing his friends a lot more now, and he's practically always at Louis', always being loved by him, and Nick and him are still mostly respectful to one another. Harry hasn't told him he's going to therapy, though, too afraid he'll find out he's still hurting himself. 

At work, he does get that assistant manager job, and he was anxious as _fuck_ about it at first, but it goes over mostly smoothly. He has to handle more big-picture stuff, and it's not actually too bad. Calling the shots has never been his biggest strength, but when it's over something as simple as flowers, it doesn't seem as complicated. 

Therapy stays the same: helpful, stressful, overwhelming and okay. It depends on the day, usually. 

Every Friday night he calls Gemma, and he's forcing himself to go with Louis and Taylor more. The three of them don’t go out altogether that often; Harry finds that they're a bit loud and draw attention to them too much. Holly tells him he shouldn't push himself too hard, but he figures that it's fine. He freaks out sometimes, yeah, and he had a small panic attack inside of a Tesco's with Louis once when they were grocery shopping, but it's okay. It's worth it. Because at night, when he's sitting in bed holding his stupid ice cube, he has a reason to be happy with himself. 

Also, Louis didn't use to make ice, didn't have a reason to, and now he always makes sure he has an ice tray ful at his apartment for Harry. 

Louis and Harry are doing good as well. Too good, it feels like. No matter how many times Harry gets sad or angry for no reason, or he needs a little extra support, or he's feeling insecure about being the weak one in the relationship, Louis stays constant. He stays supportive, and he stays loving, and he always, _always_ checks in on Harry. 

They do eventually reach a point where Harry allows him to see naked. It's the hardest thing he's ever done, the most vulnerable he's ever made himself, and it's still difficult to handle. It doesn't get easier over time. 

It started out slow: one night, Harry mentioned that he does want to have sex with him. He was a month clean at that point (which was broken: tough day at work mixed with Louis not being home and Harry neglecting his resources) and it felt okay. Ish. Not really. But he wanted to be with Louis, wanted to feel Louis inside of him, and he had to stop getting in his own way. 

"There's this scar," Harry said, "on my inner thigh. I hate it. It's gross. It's probably the one I'm most insecure of, along with the burn, and just -- " he rolled his eyes at himself and looked at Louis, who was looking at him very seriously, like he was trying to absorb every signal Harry might have been giving him. "If you could, like. Ignore them. Please."

"Of course," Louis said. "I'm not -- Harry. I'm not going to be staring at them. They're just another part of your body, alright? It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Lying to me isn't -- "

"Nope," Louis interrupted. "Don't do that. I'm not lying."

So, they turned off the lights, Harry laid on his stomach to hide the bulk of the scars, and Louis, so lovingly and sweetly, took care of him. It wasn't just sex. It couldn’t be called that. Harry had never, ever felt as loved as he did then. 

And Louis never stops being gentle with him. He never gets careless, or sneaks a look when Harry doesn't want him to, or go too rough. Even when he's really fucking Harry, hard and rough and good, _deep_ , Harry stills feels more taken care of than he ever has before. 

-

When things start going down hill, he's usually the one to start the spiral. He's aware of that. He gets too angry with himself about one thing, and that anger festers, and then that anger fuels him to cut, and then that anger becomes intensified. That's when he starts lashing out, which causes everything else to fall apart, which leads him to hate himself more, which leads him to cut, which leads him to get more angry. 

It's a cycle. And now that he has Holly, he intends on putting a stop to it. 

He's eight months into therapy when one of these cycles really starts to kick into motion. The catalyst: Harry causing his and Louis' first genuine fight. Harry was being an insecure little shit, and Louis was tired and stressed, and they both kind of just blew up on each other. 

"I don't know why I started shouting at him," Harry tells her, frowning. "Like, as soon as he let me in the door, I could tell he was tired. And usually when he's had a long day, I try to lay off, you know? He takes care of me, and I have to take care of him, and -- I don't know. We were watching TV, and I made a stupid, self-deprecating comment, and he sighed, like he was annoyed, you know? It kind of hurt my feelings. And I know he's allowed to be, like, tired of my shit sometimes? I know that. He doesn't have to coddle me all the time. I know that too. So, like. I don't know why I got so upset, and then he was too tired to notice how hurt I was, and then it just got out of hand from there."

"What'd you say?" Holly asks. 

Harry looks down at his hands. "We were watching this movie together, and, like. One of the characters was -- " he sighs. "I basically implied that I was unfuckable. That was basically it. That I'm too gross, and that I didn't know why Louis found me attractive. Which," he glances up at her, "I know that it was out of line, and I think I offended Louis a little bit? And, um. I actually don't feel as crap about myself as I have in the past. Like, my scars are still a huge insecurity, but I'm content with everything else. I, like, think I'm decently attractive, so I don't know why I said that."

That was the catalyst, and he let it drive him to his blade, which he still hasn't convinced himself to throw out. He doesn't want to get desperate enough to reach for something else. 

"So I broke my forty day streak, which," he shrugs and glances down at his hands again. "Obviously I'm really upset about it. I know it's my fault, though. I didn't even try stopping myself. And then it made Louis upset, and he felt responsible, which made me more upset, and basically, I don't know how to stop it here."

Her solution: talk to him. That's her solution to everything, it seems like. And, to be fair, it usually helps. It doesn't always fix things, but it helps. 

And he does talk about it with Louis, about how bad he feels about himself for making Louis feel like him relapsing is his fault. "I don't want you blaming yourself," he tells him, crying, because he can never have these conversations without it. "When you said that you felt like it was your fault, I -- it made me feel so, so bad about myself. And I know that wasn't your intention, and I obviously am not telling you how to feel, but," he wipes at his cheeks, "I just wanted to be honest with you."

And it helps, it does. They work it out. 

Harry thinks he's stopped his pattern of self-sabotage, and then Nick comes into the picture, who went looking for Harry's goddamn weed in his room. 

Harry doesn't know this at first, and Nick corners him. Cruelly and meanly, he corners Harry, backs him up into a wall and gives him no other option other than to lie through his teeth. 

They're in the kitchen. Harry just got in from work, and Nick is cooking something on the stove. He smiles at him, and he doesn't see how fake Nick's is, and he sits across the island from Nick to talk to him about his day. It's what they do every day. Things are fine, at first, and then Nick asks if Harry is going over to Louis', to which Harry says yes, after Louis gets off work at eight. 

"Forgot how needy you are," Nick says, still playing nice. "You know, needing to be fucked, like, every two seconds."

Harry laughs brightly. "No, it's not that. Just, neither of us have work in the morning. Louis doesn't work until five, so we were going to hang out a bit tomorrow morning, and I thought it'd be easier if I just spent the night tonight."

"I kind of miss it, you know," Nick says. He turns around to grab a spoon out of the drawer, and turns back to face Harry, who is still sitting there, oblivious. "Us having sex."

Harry blinks at him. "I, um. Well -- " he laughs. "I'm sure you get it from somewhere else."

"Yeah, I do. But I never understood why you stopped letting me fuck you." He has a dangerous look in his eye, and Harry recognizes it, but he doesn't know what it means. "When you first moved in, I mean. You said you wanted to slow down your sex life, but you were still sleeping with Niall and Liam and Taylor, and that bloke Jeff for a little bit. Just think it's odd."

"I -- "

"No, it's fine, I was just thinking about it again today." Something's wrong, Harry can feel it, and it feels like his gut is made of ice, and boiling hot water is slowly trickling down to his stomach. "I thought maybe it was because you were still cutting yourself, but you told me you weren't, so."

Harry's hand immediately seeks out the rubber band, and he doesn't flick it, even though he wants to. He feels frozen. "I wasn't," he says. "I'm not."

"Yeah, I know. ‘Course you aren't. That was all a bit fucked though, you know? You doing that. Was pretty gross, if I'm honest. Not something you want to put your dick near."

Harry's face is flushed, and his eyes burn. "You don't have to be mean about it."

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore, right? 'Cause you're not doing it anymore. You're clean, or whatever the fuck you call it."

"Yeah," Harry lies, nodding. He's going to cry so hard when he gets to his room. He doesn't know what Nick is so mad about, but whatever it is, it's got him purposefully digging into Harry's deepest insecurities, which means it's something bad. "Yeah, I'm clean. Why are you -- "

"Because you're not," Nick says, voice ice cold. "It's pretty fucking disgusting, you know, just leaving the fucking blade in a drawer. But I thought putting it on top of that self-harming pamphlet was a nice touch, you know? Kind of funny."

Harry feels breathless. "What were you doing in my room, Nick?"

" _Your_ room?" Nick snaps. "It's my fucking house. And I wanted some weed, and I was out and I know you had some left. You _always_ have weed, because _I_ always fucking give it to you." He scoffs, shaking his head. "Free house, free weed, a boyfriend, friends, and you're _still b_ eing an idiot."

A few tears trickle out of Harry's eyes, and it makes Nick that much angrier. 

"I _told_ you I didn't want you doing that here," he says, seething. "I _told_ you, I told you that from day one."

"I know, I know, but Nick, I -- "

"I don't want you here anymore, if you're going to keep doing that."

Harry feels like he might vomit. That's -- no. Things have been going well lately, he can't just -- the whole _point_ of Harry being here is for Nick to keep an eye on him. That's what Nick's intentions were. And Harry can't lose that, so he says, "I'm seeing a therapist. I have been, for months, and she's helping, she's -- "

" _Clearly_ she's fucking not,” Nick snaps. “I mean, shit, Haz. Do you give a shit about what you look like at all?"

"Stop it," Harry pleads, a small whimper erupting from his throat. "Please just try to be nice. I'm trying. I'm getting help, okay, please, _please_ don't threaten to kick me out. I -- I know you're mad, but -- "

"It wasn't a threat," Nick says evenly. He grabs a mug off the counter and takes a sip from it. "I don't want you living here anymore. Not when you're doing that."

"I don't know if you think this is going to, like, help me or something, some tough-love type of shit, but -- "

"I don't give a fuck if it's going to help you or not," Nick snaps. And no, he can't possibly think that. They're friends, they've _been_ friends for _years_ ; yes, Nick can be a dickhead, but Harry can't believe that he doesn't care about him. "I couldn't care less. You clearly do it for, like, attention or something, and I don't want that in my house, plain and simple."

"Where do you expect me to _go?_ "

Nick gives him a look. "Louis'. Taylor's. Niall's. Liam's. Fuck, _Oli's_ for all I fucking care."

"Nick," Harry sobs out. He feels like an insane person right about now. His hands are shaking and his heart is hammering hard in his chest, and he's crying. His head feels empty but so, _so_ full all at once. "Please. _Please._ Just, I know you're mad right now, but can we please talk about this?"

"I'm not mad," Nick says calmly. "I just want you to go without being difficult."

"You're overreacting."

Nick shrugs. "Maybe. Just feels a bit disrespectful, you continuing to do something in my home that I blatantly told you I didn't want you to be doing here. And then lying about it."

"Nick, mate. Come _on._ "

"God, just fucking _leave_."

And that makes Harry scramble even more. Panic is attacking every cell in his body, and it's a miracle he's still able to talk and think mostly coherently. "You want me to leave _now?_ "

Nick looks bored. "Yes."

"Nick, I -- "

"You're giving me a headache," Nick says, sighing. He shuts the stove off and walks away to the living room, and Harry just sits there for a few minutes, head and heart pounding with worry and shock and confusion. He knows that Nick didn't like it, but -- he's overreacting. Objectively, he is. It may be Nick's house, and he might have every right to kick Harry out for whatever reason, but it's. . . Harry doesn't pay rent. He's shit at cleaning his room. He lets the trashcan in his bathroom overflow sometimes. Couldn't those be the reasons Nick finally snapped and kicked him out? Why does he have to be punished for something that he can't help?

When he feels sure his legs aren’t going to give out if he stands, he makes his way to his room. He doesn't have a plan -- does he listen to Nick and leave, or does he fight to stay? -- but he does know he wants to talk to Louis right now. Louis will tell him what he should do. Louis will promise him that he's not some disgusting, disgraceful human being. 

But Louis' at work, and he doesn't answer. 

"Hi, Lou, um," his voice sounds scratchy and rough, and he shouldn't worry Louis while he's at work. He shouldn't. "Can you call me back when you get the chance? I just want to talk to you. Um. Yeah. Alright, bye. Love you."

He tries Taylor next, and she's at work as well. Everyone he could call right now will be working. It's a fucking Thursday. Taylor doesn't answer, and he debates between calling Liam or Niall next. Niall owns a small shop in London, he's basically his own boss, so if anyone is going to answer him, it'll probably be him. 

He's right. Niall answers on the second ring. "Hiya, Haz."

Harry's not sure what he should say, not sure what he needs to ask. He sits on the edge of the bed and runs his sweaty hands over his thighs. "Hi."

"What's up?" Niall's always good at picking up on Harry's moods and handling them discreetly. He doesn't usually ask Harry about his problems directly, he just tries to be there for him. And based on the tone of his voice, Niall knows Harry's probably having a rough time right now, and his _what's up_ means _what's wrong_. 

"Are you home?"

"No, I'm at work. I close shop in, like, three hours though. If you need me to close sooner, I can. Or you can stop by. Just -- what's up, mate?"

"Nick's being a dick," he says, doing his best to sound less heartbroken and more annoyed, "and I just want to get out of the house for a bit. Do you, um. Do you mind if I stay at yours for a bit? I can be gone by the time you get home, I just -- Louis doesn't get off until eight either, and I don't. . ." he trails off, unsure. Going to Louis' flat uninvited is probably better than going to Niall's. 

He's already here, though. He already asked. 

"Of course," Niall says. "Yeah, H. Go for it. There's a spare key underneath the mailbox. Just hang out for a bit, yeah? I don't mind. Feel free to make yourself at home."

Harry lets out a shaky breath. "Thank you."

"No problem, mate. Call me when you get in, okay?"

Harry nods, tells him he will, and then hangs up. He doesn't really have a plan, but going to Niall's for a few hours seems like a good first step. He grabs a few things, not anything more than a duffel bag’s worth, and leaves. 

-

Getting drunk off Niall's cheap beer is not his intention, but it's what he does. 

Or maybe it was his intention, because when he went to the fridge, he wasn't looking for anything else. It's just -- he's stressed. He's confused. He doesn't have Louis to run to like he always selfishly does, and he thinks maybe if he gets drunk enough, he won't utilize the blade that is sitting at the bottom of that duffel bag. 

It starts off as one beer, and then two, and now he's working on the fifth one this hour. He's already decided he has to stop after this one. He's also aware that alcohol is the last thing his brain needed right now. Now his head is even more foggy, and he feels sluggish and warm, and he should go lie down somewhere. He needs to sleep this off, and then he'll wake up and talk to Nick and figure out if he's being serious or not. 

He's flicked the rubber band against his left wrist so many times that the skin under it is bright red and angry, and he doesn't know why he keeps doing it considering he's fully planning on going to a bathroom and cutting. 

Planning isn't the right word. No, he's not _planning_ on it, it's just -- he knows himself. He knows what comes next. 

Taylor calls him back as he finishes the fifth beer, and he doesn't answer. She won't worry too much; he's been doing good lately. There's no reason for her to worry right now. 

He starts crying then. Out of nowhere, and it comes on strong, and he feels so, so weak. He's a grown adult, and it still feels like he's swimming in the kiddy pool. He really does hate himself. He's wasted so much of his life; the first eighteen years of his life being wasted can be blamed on his father, but everything after that is on him. It's all on him. 

Cutting while drunk isn't a good idea. Cutting while being so drunk that he can't get his pants off is especially a bad idea. He can't get the zipper and button to cooperate with him, and they're too tight to just pull down over his bum without undoing the button, and he's crying and he doesn't even have the energy to pick himself off the bathroom floor, and he's flicking the rubber band over and over and over and over and -- and it's almost enough. Almost. 

Maybe it's because he's so overwhelmed, or so drunk, or so, so sad, that he convinces himself it'll be alright if he makes one shallow cut under the rubber band. Shallow enough that it won't scar. 

The panic and regret doesn't kick in until he has two thin lines pressed into the inside of his wrist. And when it does settle in his skin, he cries so hard that it hurts. Maybe to look as pathetic as he feels, he lies down on the floor and pulls his knees to his chest, and he gets blood all over his jeans, but they're black and he doesn't fucking care. 

Niall calls him after about twenty minutes of him laying there, and he doesn't answer because he's crying hysterically and also just doesn't feel up for a chat right about now. But that makes Niall worry, or at least he thinks it does, because suddenly he's home almost two hours early and knocking on the bathroom door, asking him quietly to let him in. 

"You're not hurt, are you?" Niall asks when Harry cries and tells him that he wants to be alone right now. 

Harry closes his eyes and turns to press his cheek against the cold floor. He feels a lot like he did that night in Brighton. "Niall, just -- "

"I have a key. I mean, I don't know where it is, but I'll go find it if you don't let me in, alright? So let me in."

Harry sniffles. His nose burns. He should just let Niall in, and that's what he does. He forces himself to stand, using the tub's ledge to help himself up (there's blood on the floor, he should clean up, Niall shouldn't have to see that and opens the door. 

Niall gives him a small, reassuring smile, and then lets out a quiet, "Oh, Haz," when he sees Harry's wrist. It sets off another wave of sobs, and Niall shushes him and shakes his head. "Don't cry, mate, it's okay. Let's wash it off, though, alright? And I'll get you a band-aid."

Niall crowds into his space and guides him to the sink. He grabs Harry's elbow and positions it under the sink, and Harry's brain is whiting out again as he stares at the blood, and it's -- 

"Hot or cold water?" Niall asks, frowning. "Hot, right?"

"I can do it," Harry says. He feels like he needs to cry, like he has to get all of this out of his system, even though he just bawled his eyes out for a half hour. 

"I -- "

"Let me fucking do it," Harry snaps, and then he lets out a sharp cry, and Niall sighs. He lets go of Harry's arm and wraps his arms around his middle instead, allowing Harry to do the work but still staying near for support. 

Harry takes a deep breath and starts washing off the blood. He can't believe he cut his wrist. There's a fucking reason he's never done it there. There are so many reasons. Being drunk isn't an excuse. Neither is being stupid. He can't believe himself. 

He starts to rub maybe a little too hard at wrist, the rubber band rubbing up against it painfully and coaxing out more blood. Niall doesn't say anything at first, just tightens his arms around Harry. And then Harry really starts scrubbing at it, so hard that it hurts worse than making the cut did. 

Maybe if he rubs hard enough, it'll just go away. So he rubs and rubs and rubs at it, and the pain gets worse and his skin starts to feel raw, and Niall is trying to pull his hand away but Harry's insistent. He just wants it gone, maybe if -- maybe if he -- God, he wants it gone. He wants it off his wrist. It needs to _go_. 

"Alright, Harry, _alright._ Jesus," Niall hisses, yanking his elbow back so he can't do it anymore. "You're starting to scare me, alright? So please stop."

"Just let me -- " he tries to get out of Niall's grasp, tries to free himself so he can go back to essentially attempting to rip the wound off him, and Niall won't let him. 

"Stop it," he snaps. "I mean it. Stop."

Harry sags against him, still crying, and lets Niall wash off the rest of the blood that Harry forced out. His skin is throbbing. It looks bad. It looks swollen and red. Angry. It looks like it's yelling at him. 

God, he's too drunk. 

Niall bandages it and tells him very seriously to leave it alone, and then he grabs Harry's shoulders and steers him to the direction of his bedroom. They pass the kitchen on the way there, and the beer cans are still on the kitchen counter. Niall's fingers dig into his shoulders. 

"How much have you had to drink?"

Harry closes his eyes briefly. It's always the hard part, facing what he's done. "Just five beers?"

" _Just_ five? In _one_ hour?"

"Ni, please," Harry says, almost whimpers. "Don't give me a hard time right now."

And then there is Niall's bed, and Harry immediately crawls into it. He kicks off his shoes and pulls the blankets over his shoulders. He shoves his face in Niall's pillow and just breathes. He needs to catch his breath. Niall slots himself behind Harry, cuddling him up, and that feels nice. It'd be nicer if it was Louis, but he can't have Louis until at least two more hours. 

They lay together in silence, and it doesn't take long for Harry to start flicking the rubber band against his wrist. His injured risk. And he's not doing it because he's seeking pain, and he's not doing it for _attention,_ like Nick accused him of, it's just what he's grown used to doing when he's stressed. The way it hits the cuts hidden by the bandage feels good, though, undeniably and in a sick way, and it doesn't take long for Niall to grab his hand to stop him. 

"Stop it," he snaps, and he sounds angry. 

Harry tugs his hand from Niall's. "I'm not -- it's not like that."

"Okay, well do it on your other wrist if you need to."

Harry listens to him, only because he wants something to focus on and he's not in the position to argue. It feels different on his right wrist though, a bad different, like it doesn't reach all the same spots or something. It's irritating, so eventually he stops. It's not helping. 

Again, Niall leaves him alone until Harry starts bothering his left wrist again. He's just pressing his fingers against it, dragging them back and forth over the bandage, and Niall grabs his hand again. 

"H," he says, tone still hard. "Call Louis for me, okay?"

"He's at work."

"Don't care. Call him."

"I already did."

"Harry," Niall says, sounding stressed. "Call him again, okay?" He hands him his phone that he must've picked up off the floor before they left the bathroom, and Harry takes it and types Louis' number. It rings a few times, and then it goes to voicemail, and Harry clicks the button to end the call. 

"Told you," he mumbles, going to toss his phone on the side table, and Niall stops him. 

"Call the hospital he works at, and tell them you need to talk to him." 

Harry frowns, confused. He turns to look at Niall, who looks angry in a quiet way. "I can go to his flat now and wait for him to come home if you don't want me here."

And Harry's seen that look on so many different people's faces in his life before; he knows what Niall's fearing right now. "I'm not going to fucking kill myself, oh my god." He wriggles out of Niall's arms and sits up on the edge of the bed. The room rolls violently. "Some of you don't care enough, and some of you care too much."

Niall follows him up and sets a hand on back. "I don't know what that means, Harry, but I'm sorry if you think that I'm being a shit friend. But I also think you need someone looking after you right now, and you're kind of worrying me. You're behaving in a way I don't know how to handle on my own. I. . ." he takes a deep breath and moves his hand to the back of Harry's neck, setting it there. "I don't want you calling Louis because he's Louis, I want you calling Louis because he has some medical background and he'll know how to help you. More than I do, anyway."

"What, you thinking I'm losing my mind or something?" He scoffs, shaking his head. He's annoyed, and also a little hurt. Insecurity rips through him. 

"I think you might be having some sort of mental breakdown, yeah."

"I'm _drunk_ ," Harry snaps, standing up. He glares at Niall as he crosses his arms over his chest. His injured wrist rubs against his ribcage, and it feels good. "I'm drunk and I'm upset. I've cut myself before. I cut myself all the fucking time, and maybe that makes me a crazy person, but that doesn't -- I'm not having a fucking nervous breakdown right now. If this is a mental breakdown, then I've had, like, a thousand in my life."

Niall doesn't seem fazed by his anger. He's trying to keep himself calm, steady, and he's doing a good job of it. "Call Louis, or I'm calling someone else. The police or something, I don't know."

"Oh, fuck you," Harry hisses, but he goes for his phone anyway because he's _not_ dealing with that. He can't. And he doesn't need the police, he's sure of that. He's mostly okay right now. Like he told Niall: this isn't any different. Maybe he cut his wrist, and yeah, he hasn't done that before, but -- but this isn't anything serious. 

He gets the number to Louis' hospital online and then looks at Niall. "What the fuck do you want me to even say to him?"

"That you're acting erratic," Niall says. "That you're insistent on hurting yourself. That you're drunk, and you don't have the clearest head when you're drunk. That I'm scared to leave you long enough to go to the bathroom, scared that you'll leave or -- "

"You talk, then," Harry snaps, handing him the phone. "If you have so much to say." He gives Niall the phone and leaves the room, too wound up to want to be near anybody right now. He regrets trusting Niall. He regrets thinking this was a safe space. How fucking dare he threaten to call the police when Harry's just having a little meltdown. He's not stupid; he knows that he's not behaving normally, but it's normal for him. Normal enough, anyway. 

He still can't believe he cut his fucking wrist. He's going to have to hide it for so long, and he's going to be a nervous wreck about it scarring the entire time it's healing. 

As he sits on Niall's couch, picturing the conversation going on between Louis and Niall right now, he works himself to tears. Sobs, more like, but he doesn't want to admit to that. He's cried too much today. He doesn't know how there's anything else left. 

Niall comes out about five minutes later, and he tries to touch Harry but Harry shoves him away. Not hard, just -- he makes it clear he doesn't want to be touched right now, not by him. 

"He'll be here in twenty," Niall says quietly, sitting down on the other side of the couch. Harry's tucked in on himself in the corner, and he lets out a tired laugh and wipes at his eyes. 

"Do you know how embarrassing this is?" he asks. "I'm hurting right now, and you -- you didn't have to call him. You didn't have to call my boyfriend to tell him I'm freaking the fuck out again."

Niall frowns. "I'm not trying to betray your trust, Haz. I just think you need a little extra support right now."

"And I told you I didn't, and you didn't trust me. None of you trust me."

Niall makes an offended noise and shakes his head. "Mate, I love you, but when someone who's just sliced their wrist with a blade tells you they're not suicidal, you're a little hesitant about believing them."

"Fine," Harry agrees, because that's fair. "But you didn't have to tell Louis right now. Not when he's working. I hate that he thinks he has to worry about me all the time, and now you've made it worse."

"I'm not going to apologize for calling your educated boyfriend when you are this upset. You need him right now."

And yeah, he does. Harry knows that before Louis even gets to Niall's, but he feels it down to his core as soon as he bursts into tears again when he sees Louis. He's sitting in the kitchen now, wanting to be away from Niall for a bit, and he reaches out for Louis like a child. And Louis, who looks beyond worried, immediately comes over to him and wraps his arms around him tightly. 

"You're fine, love. I've got you."

Harry tucks his head against Louis' neck, even though it's hard to when he's sitting on a stool and so much taller than Louis. It hurts his back a bit. "You're not going to get in trouble for leaving work early, are you?"

"No," Louis whispers, soothing and gentle. He's rubbing up and down Harry's back. "No, sweetheart. Don't worry about me." He lets go of Harry for a second to sit down at the stool beside him, and Harry feels needy and useless with the way the hurt gets worse when he's not being held by Louis. Louis grabs one of his hands, and then sets his other hand on Louis' cheek, and it's good enough. Harry would rather be held and coddled right now, but this is okay too. 

"Tell me what happened," Louis says, almost pleading. He's worried. Niall probably scared him half to death. 

"I'm okay," Harry tells him. "I'm fine. Niall overreacted a little."

Louis doesn't look trusting. "He said you're more off than normal, babe."

"Because I was drinking."

"Yeah, and that's not like you either," Louis says, "not anymore." He leans forward to kiss his forehead, probably to try and seem like he's not accusing Harry of something. It doesn't really work. "Niall said you told him Nick was being a dick. What'd he do?"

Another pocket of sorrow explodes in Harry's chest, and more tears wait to be shed. He feels so frail right now. "He," his voice cracks. He won't be able to talk about this right now. It hurts too much. Everything Nick said to him was Harry's biggest fears: that he's not attractive, that he's not worth the struggle, that he's annoying. So, he tries to avoid that bit and says, "He kicked me out."

Louis pulls back, confused. "What? Why?"

He plans on saying that he can't talk about it right now, or make up some excuse, but he ends up letting out a loud cry and saying, "Because I'm a fucking _freak,_ Louis."

He regrets saying it, not because it's not the truth but because he doesn't want Louis more worried than he already is. And Louis looks heartbroken after he says it, and this is what he meant when he said he's not good enough for Louis.

-

Harry can't bring himself to tell Louis about what Nick said until the next morning, when they're laying in bed under Louis' warm, nice blankets. Things between them have mostly settled: Louis' not scared Harry's going to do something permanent like Niall was, and Harry doesn't have his blade -- he left in the bathroom and they obviously wouldn't let him get it. Louis took him home, Harry cried a bit more, they ate dinner, Harry sobbed as Louis helped him clean the cuts on his wrist, so hard that he felt like he could puke, and then they laid down in bed. Louis turned on a movie, and exhaustion slowly drained everything else out of Harry. By the end of the movie, he felt okay again, and Louis talked to him about work and then they went to bed. 

Harry's terrified Louis' going to agree with Nick, that's why he doesn't want to tell him. It's stupid, he knows it is; even if Louis does agree, he's managed to hide it this long. He wouldn't just suddenly say, _Yeah, Haz. He's right, you're disgusting_. He wouldn't do that to Harry now. 

"Can I stay here for a little while?" Harry asks, voice small. Louis' tucked under his arm, his head on Harry's chest, so he can't see his face. 

"Of course," Louis says immediately, sitting up. "Yes. You can stay here as long as you want."

Tears burn Harry's eyes. Shit. He thought he could get through this without crying. "I can pay for -- "

Louis shakes his head sternly. "No. You're not paying for anything. Let me take care of you."

And usually the implication that he's this little weak thing that Louis needs to coddle is difficult for Harry to handle, but right now, it sounds good. He wants (needs?) Louis to be his shield right now. 

A few minutes pass, and Louis lies back down in the bed, this time sitting up against the pillows a bit so he can play with Harry's hair. "You ready to talk about whatever Nick did?"

Instinctively, Harry reaches for the rubber band. It's still on his right wrist, and it still doesn't feel the same. 

"Just, like. He, um, found my blade. And he just blew up on me."

Louis stays silent, although his fingers start to move through Harry's hair more insistently. 

"It feels like he knew every single one of my insecurities, and then threw them in my face."

An unhappy noise comes from Louis as he sets his head on the top of Harry's. He is always so gentle in the way he touches him. (And sometimes it doesn't feel like he deserves it, and sometimes he feels like he could run the other way in fear of hurting Louis.) "What'd he say to you, love?"

"Everything." His voice comes out a little croaky. "Said I was gross, and that it was hard to put his dick near my cuts," Louis' hand grips his shoulder, almost too roughly, "that therapy isn't helping me and that I'm stupid. He said -- he said I must not care about what I look like, and I _do,_ I do so much." He flicks the rubber band once, twice, three times as he talks. It's going to be hard to stop doing that, another habit he's going to have to break, but it's okay. He'd rather be stuck flicking his wrist than slicing his thighs. "And I don't want to sit here and talk about how you think what he said is wrong. I don't want to hear that right now. But he -- he said that I do it for attention, and I don't. I don't, I swear. I can't -- how many of my friends think that?"

"None of the good ones," Louis says immediately. "Taylor doesn't, I don't. We're your best mates, yeah? And I've only met Niall and Liam a few times, but they seem like good people. They seem like they have half a brain cell and would be capable of realizing that you're not doing it for attention."

The accusation hurts so, so much. "I'm not," he promises again, just to be clear. 

Louis kisses the top of his head. "I know you're not, babe. I know that. You don't have to convince me." He squeezes him tightly, and they sit like that for a few minutes, Louis trying to comfort him and Harry trying to allow himself to be comforted. Eventually, Louis whispers, "I know you said you'd rather not talk about everything, but I just think I have to say that I think you're really, really attractive, all right? You're bloody gorgeous. And I feel like you've just started to get used to that idea, and if he took that away from you, I might have to kill him."

Harry doesn't say anything. He should tell Louis that Nick didn't take that away, or at least thank him, but he doesn't want to do either of those. 

-

Living with Louis is odd. 

It's incredibly different from how it was a few years ago. First of all, it's Louis' place, and Louis is a responsible adult who vacuums and does the grocery shopping. He meal-preps, which is such an odd concept to Harry. And for the first few weeks, Harry's self-conscious of eating out of Louis' fridge, because that's essentially putting Louis out of more money, and one night, Louis comes home from work and sees there are no dishes in the sink and shoots daggers at Harry, saying that if he didn't get his butt in the kitchen right now and make something for himself to eat, Louis was going to do it himself. 

"And I'll make it really gross, so, like," Louis shrugs. "You might want to do it yourself."

Harry's cautiousness in Louis' home also makes him more hesitant about hurting himself in Louis' home, which. . . is different. Weird. Doesn't make a lot of sense. It just feels disrespectful, and as he stares at the razor blades at the convenience store, he thinks better of it and turns the other way. Maybe now that he doesn't have a blade, he won't struggle anymore. 

Wishful thinking, he knows. He just goes absolutely crazy with the rubber band, and he heats coffee or hot cocoa up for a long time in the microwave so he can wrap his hands around the mug as tight as he can for as long as he can, the burn of it making his eyes-water and his thoughts quiet. He also kicks up the habit of scratching; hard enough to leave marks, yet soft enough that the marks don't stay for long. 

One morning, Harry is sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, and Louis walks into the kitchen. He hasn't caught on to this little habit yet, so Harry doesn't stop himself from doing it. Louis eyes the mug in his hands and shakes his head. 

"Nope," he says, coming over and grabbing the mug out of Harry's hands gently. He hisses when he touches it, and Harry instinctively pushes Louis' hand away from it, thinking, _Don't do that, that's hot, don't hurt yourself._ "I don't like that, H. Stick to your ice cubes, or something else. Not that." He grabs Harry's hands, which are bright red and shaking, and he shakes his head again. "Please don't do this. I don't want you accidentally burning yourself."

"It's fine, Louis. Seriously." He drags the mug back over to him, but he doesn't wrap his hands back around it. "I'll stop, though. If you. . . if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Thank you."

There's one day that he and Louis are laying on the couch, Louis' legs laid over Harry's, and Harry's flicking the rubber band over and over. He's twenty days clean at his point, because he's been living at Louis' for twenty days. The skin under the rubber band is raw, almost. Louis' not going to tell him to move it to his still-healing wrist, though, is he, so Harry doesn't stop. 

The rubber band breaks randomly, and Harry immediately feels like the world is ending, and it's scary, how physical the reaction is. Like withdrawal from a drug, or something. His chest heaves and he rubs over the area where he had been flicking at without stopping for the last few minutes, trying to keep the hurt there, and he feels _scared,_ which is. . . something he'll have to talk to Holly about. He doesn't like being so dependent on the stupid fucking rubber band. 

"Hey, stop, I probably have another in the junk drawer." 

Louis stands and goes to the kitchen, and Harry sits there, feeling so unlike himself that it terrifies him. Louis comes back with another rubber band, this one blue, about a minute and a half later, and as soon as Harry has it on and is back to flicking it against his skin, he feels settled again, and he hates it. He hates it.

Still. It's better than a blade. 

He hasn't talked to Nick at all, and he's hurt that Nick hasn't tried to reach out, not even once. Not even just to tell him to come get the rest of his things. It rattles Harry, down to his core; did Nick never care about him? Has he just been using Harry this entire time? Using him for what, Harry doesn't know, it's just -- you don't throw someone you care about out of your house and not care where they land on their feet. Holly has her theories about it, but she's not him. He wants to know how Nick could do that to him, and he wants to hear it from Nick. 

He's not going to call first, though. He's got to show a bit of strength and dignity. 

The first week or so, Louis and Harry aren't that touchy, and Harry knows that it’s his fault. Directly, and indirectly. Directly because he doesn't initiate it, and indirectly because he's made Louis scared to. But for the first couple of days, Harry feels so disoriented that he's glad Louis doesn't want sex from him. That'd make him feel used, or dirty. But they do eventually work back up to it, and maybe Harry feels crap about himself during sex still, probably worse than he ever has, but it still feels good, and usually he can lose himself in that. 

Until it's over, and as soon as Louis is out of him, Harry's scrambling to put clothes on. 

"You have a freckle on the back of your knee, you know that?" Louis asks him once, while he's fingering Harry, and immediately, Harry feels hideous. He does know there's a freckle on the back of his knee; it's on his left one, and about an inch away from a scar, and Harry grabs a blanket and puts it over his body, hiding Louis' hand, and he stares at the ceiling, a little breathless. Good or bad, he can't tell. 

"Don't look at my legs," he says, shutting his eyes. "Don't. Please just don't." 

Louis pulls his fingers out of him and covers Harry up with the blanket entirely, and it makes him feel a lot less exposed. "I'm sorry," he says, crawling over to sit next to Harry. "I just noticed it, I didn't mean. . . But you're right, I'm sorry. You've asked me not to look, and I shouldn’t have."

Harry glances at him and frowns. "You're still hard," he says, and he starts to sit up, but Louis pushes him gently back down. 

"Don't," he says. "Not when you're upset."

"I'm not upset."

"You're hiding underneath a blanket," Louis argues, and Harry sighs, setting his head back on the pillow. 

"Well, now I've lube all in me for no good reason." It's a joke, and Louis takes it as one. Harry's not going to whine his way into getting fucked, not after Louis said he's uncomfortable doing it right now. 

"I love you," Harry says after a few minutes of silence. It's not the first time he's said that to Louis, far from it, but it still feels like it is every time he says it to him. "I feel like I don't say that enough."

"I love you too, Haz," Louis says, leaning down to kiss his cheek. 

-

The next time Harry sees Holly, she brings up the idea of getting Harry on some anxiety medication again, and like always, Harry declines. He doesn't even think about it, really. It's just not something he wants to do, and he doesn't have a reason for it. And because she's his therapist, she doesn't push him too much on it. 

Harry sighs as he leans back against the sofa. He's been in a bad mood all day, for no real reason. He's managed not to take it out on anybody, which is a good thing. It always makes him feel shitty about himself when he snaps at someone for no good reason. Harry takes a deep breath before stating, "I think I'm turning into my dad."

She frowns at him, clearly disapproving. "Why do you say that?"

"I was thinking about it last night, like. . . he can't control his anger, and I can't control my sadness, and we take it out on people we care about. I don't. . . I don't think he cares about anyone, I don't think he's capable of that, but still." He shrugs, his fingers sliding over the rubber band on his wrist. "And he's got my mum wrapped around his finger, she does everything for him, and I -- I just think that I'm that way with Louis, sometimes."

"Louis is supportive of you," she says. "I don't think that's the same thing.”

Harry shrugs again, leaning his head back to look up at the ceiling. He's pretty sure this thought won't stick around for long, so he's not all that worried about it. It was just keeping him up last night, and the more he thought about it, the more similarities he could find, and he hates that. 

"I don't get why he hates me so much," Harry says, squinting his eyes slightly. "Never made any sense to me. There was this time when I was seven that he yelled at me so badly for accidentally tearing a hole in my sweater that I pissed my pants." He scoffs quietly. "I was _seven._ "

Before she can make some distant comment about that, he continues. "When I was ten, he made me sleep outside in the middle of winter because I got a bad mark on my spelling test. And I didn't stay outside, I walked to Louis', and then he got mad at me for that, too. And there was," he sits up, suddenly charged with anger, "there was time that he threatened to kill our cat because I defended my mum, and after that, every time I came home from school I was so worried that he'd actually done it that I would search the whole house until I found Theo."

She listens to him rant patiently. 

"I think that's part of the reason I'm so fucked," he says. "I never got any type of reasoning -- no closure, I guess. I never got any closure. I'll never know why he fucking hated me so much, and it fucks with my head."

"Sometimes people don't have a reason for why they hurt people. Sometimes they're just angry, and -- "

Harry interrupts her, bored of the stupid therapy talk right now. "That's bullshit. I'm angry, and you don't see me going around hurting people because of it."

No, he just hurts himself. And before she can make this connection, he gives her a look and says, "Don't. Just don't even say it."

"Resenting your father for everything he did it completely justified, but I think it'd be good if we worked on you letting that go."

"Can't," Harry mumbles, moving to run his fingers over the rubber band again. "Not when he's still hurting my mum."

Accepting that he'll never get any closure is a hard thing to swallow. A part of him wants to be brave enough to go home or call his father and demand to know what was so wrong with him, but he knows deep down that wouldn't be brave. That'd be cowardly. The brave thing to do is sit on the sidelines quietly, watching and waiting for a time where his father can't hurt anyone else.

-

Nick texts him four days later. 

Harry's sitting in the living room while Louis' in their room folding laundry, and as soon as he sees Nick's name flash on his phone and feels a tight grip of panic around his heart, he gets up and goes to Louis. Even if it's maybe childish and definitely unfair to Louis, he'd rather put too much pressure on Louis than hurt himself, which would then lead to friction in their relationship. It's stupid that's what is has to be like, but it is that way, and Harry's trying to learn to work around it. 

"Nick texted me," he says, when Louis looks up at him standing in the doorway. Louis nods slowly, setting down a folded pair of Harry's pants. Harry offered to help him fold and put the clothes away, and Louis had said no, that he had it.

"What'd he say?"

Harry glances down at his phone. His whole body feels hot. "He asked when I'm going to get my stuff from his house." 

The text actually reads, _Are you ever fucking going to come and get your shit?_ It's mean and it's cold, and Harry doesn't understand how Nick's brain operates. He never has been able to. One minute it felt like he cared, and the next it felt like he thought Harry was the scum on the bottom of his shoe. It was nauseating. _Is_ nauseating. And Harry's accepted that Nick kicked him out for real already, so he doesn't know why he gets so panicked about Nick being serious about it.

"I can get everything tonight," Louis says, looking cautious and gentle and loving, God, Harry doesn't deserve him, he doesn't. "It'd be a good thing to get your stuff here, anyway. For, like, practicality reasons, and so you can close that chapter of your life for good."

Harry stares at him. "It wasn't a chapter. He was my friend for years. He's helped me too many times to count."

"He's not reliable, and he's certainly not good for you." Louis stands, and Harry stays in place as he comes to him. He feels like he's outside of his body, a bit, when Louis wraps his arms around him and holds him close. Once Harry feels less shitty, he manages to wrap his arms around Louis, too, and bends down to tuck his nose against Louis' shoulder. 

"People are allowed to make mistakes," Louis says. "Nobody's perfect, I understand that. But you can't stick around someone who only wants to be nice to you half the time. You deserve more than a part-time friend. He's made you feel so shit about yourself countless times as well, right? Why waste your time with him when there are people like me and Taylor who are kind to you ninety-nine percent of the time?"

"I was a part-time friend to you for years," Harry whispers, his fingers digging into Louis' back. "How is that logic fair if you still chose to love me after all of that?"

"Harry, love." And he sounds delicate, like he's trying to figure out how to word something without hurting Harry's feelings. "Those situations are completely different. We -- we had our struggles, yeah. But you felt abandoned by me, and you," he sighs. "You are a person, and you are intelligent and beautiful and amazing, but you've also faced shit Nick can't even understand, so it's just -- it's different."

"So because I'm fucked in the head, that's an excuse for being a shitty person to you?" He knows he's being annoying. He knows that's not what Louis means. But he also knows that he didn't deserve to be forgiven so many times. He closes his eyes and squeezes Louis tighter. Louis mimics the touch in response. "Ignore me. I'm sorry. I just feel like I'll miss him if I let him go."

"Do you miss Oli?"

"Oli and Nick are completely different."

"True," Louis agrees. "But I know cutting Oli off felt impossible and scary for you at first, and now I hope you realize it was worth it. It'll be the same with Nick, I think. You'll miss him, probably for the first few months, but it won't last forever."

Harry thinks over it for a few quiet moments, trying to work it out in his own mind. It seems stupid now to even consider forgiving Nick for all those awful things he said to him, but he also knows he probably won't feel like that forever. And who is he going to get his weed from now? He's been missing it like mad.

He rolls his eyes at himself at presses a kiss to Louis' shoulder. "You don't have to go tonight. I think. . . I think I'd rather you go, but you don't have to do it right now."

"I'm not doing anything tonight, and I'd rather it off your mind as soon as possible."

"Okay," Harry whispers. "Thank you. I'll finish the laundry."

Louis nods and releases Harry, presses a kiss to his cheek. He grabs his coat off the back of the door and pulls it on, and he says he'll go now and get take out on the way home. He asks Harry what kind of pizza he wants. Harry says pepperoni. Louis asks him if he'll be okay on his own. Harry promises he won't do anything to hurt himself. Louis leaves after another kiss to the cheek, and Harry spends a ridiculous amount of time folding the rest of the laundry to try and keep his mind occupied until Louis gets back. 

He knows exactly when Louis gets there, because he gets a snarky text from Nick that reads, _You sent your boyfriend to do your dirty work? Classy._ And Harry ignores it. Tries to, anyway. And fails. He sits there, folding socks and tossing them in the drawer, thinking of what he should say to Nick, or if he should say anything. 

Eventually, he decides he shouldn't text back. Nothing he can say will make Nick understand how deeply he hurt him, and nothing he can say will hurt Nick back, which he's not even sure he wants to do. Nick will probably be at the very least annoyed by a lack of response, and that has to be enough. It has to be. 

Louis texts him when he's home so Harry can help him bring everything inside. As he scans through what's here, he briefly realizes that his belongings are shrinking. When he moved to London, the amount of stuff he brought with him was half of what was in his room. When he moved to Nick's, it probably halved again. And now, it's pretty much the same, aside from a few things that Harry won't even miss. It's just a little odd to see. 

Later on that night as they're eating pizza on the couch and watching a sitcom on TV, Louis turns to him. "I promised myself I wouldn't tell you, but I'm pretty sure Nick regrets doing what he did and he's too prideful to say that to you. So, like. I don't know. Just thought you should know."

Harry nods slowly. He doesn't know what to do with that information, so he files it away for later. That's getting easier to do. 

A lot of things are becoming easier to do, which is terrifying. It's not relieving, not at all. He doesn't like healing, as Holly would call it, because it seems super fucking temporary and he's getting into uncharted territory. He's even seriously considering getting on medication, and that's -- he won't be able to handle it if things suddenly go bad again. When he was at rock bottom, he couldn't fall any more, but if he lets himself be taken to heights he hasn't been before, the fall will hurt so much more. It'll crush him. 

He opens up about his fears to Taylor a week later, when he's at her office because she asked him to stop by because she was bored and knew he didn't work today. He didn't absolutely shit himself as he told the receptionist that he was here to see Taylor; all he did was smile when she nodded and said that Ms. Swift is expecting him and he can go right ahead. It's not that easy, and he was a bit nervous, but that's something he at won't point couldn't do. That's insane. 

He denied himself of this for years, and he fucking hates himself for it. 

"You have Louis now," she says, reaching forward to grab his wrist. "You won't fall down that path again."

"I have depression. Louis doesn't change that. He won't be able to, like, ward off a few weeks of me feeling like shit."

She frowns. "But he'll be able to help. He'll make it a little more bearable."

"I'm so scared he's going to be disappointed in me if I get bad again," Harry says, and it feels fucking good to say out loud considering he's barely been letting himself think it. He scrubs a hand down his face and sets his hand on top of Taylor's, squeezing her fingers. He's so thankful Louis isn't bothered or threatened by how close they are. "I feel like -- I feel like he thinks I'm something that he fixed, and he didn't, and -- and I'm not fixed. I'll never be completely fixed. And what if he realizes that?"

"Louis _loves_ you. And he understands how depression works, H."

Harry laughs humorlessly. "Does he? 'Cause I still fucking don't."

"H," she says quietly, and Harry shakes his head. She didn't ask him here so he could pour his baggage onto her. And he doesn't even know why he's feeling this way, so he should probably keep it under wraps until he can figure out where it's coming from. 

"I'm okay, I am." He gives her a smile and squeezes her fingers again. "I think. . . I think it's a good thing, you know? That I'm worried about disappointing him. I think that means I have someone I'm not willing to lose, and that's. . . new, I think."

"Good," she says, nodding. "I'm happy for you."

-

Months later, days after he passes six months of being clean, he abruptly relapses, and he's scared that his fears what he admitted to Taylor day will come true if he tells Louis about it. He hides all the evidence, flushing bloodied toilet paper and throwing out the pack of blades he bought earlier in the day in a garbage can down the street, and he pretends like nothing happened when Louis gets home from work. 

He can't hide it for very long, because Louis _looking_ at him is enough to make him squirm with guilt. Two days after he actually does it, he pulls a cowardly move by texting Louis what he's done while they're both at work so he doesn't have to see his face as he reads the words, _I don't know how to tell you this in person, and I know that's shit of me, but I cut myself two days ago and I'm sorry._

Louis isn't mad at him, and he's not disappointed in him. Harry ends up coming to terms with the fact that it wasn't realistic to think he would be in the first place. He didn't actually expect him to be angry, he was just scared he'd be. He didn't expect him to be so devastated, though. How sad Louis is almost makes Harry uncomfortable; he doesn't like knowing how much Louis cares about these types of things. Or maybe he's just not used to it. 

Harry doesn't let this slip up become anything more than a small bump. He forces himself to cling onto the mundane things in life, like continuing to shower every day and eat every few hours. He forces himself to accept help, whether it be from Louis or Taylor or Holly or anyone else. He has to. 

Like always, the cut fades into a scar. Like sometimes, the scar gradually disappears. It doesn't take any of the old ones with it, but Harry's accepted by now that those aren't going anywhere anytime soon. 

-

Loving Louis is easier than being friends with Louis ever was. Maybe that's where the disconnect between them was, maybe they didn't mesh as friends in their adult life because they blurred the lines as friends and more than that when they were kids. Harry doesn't know. All he knows is that he likes waking up to Louis, so much that he's almost excited to go to bed with him. Louis doesn't take night shifts anymore, not when Harry can't sleep well without him and the lack of sleep makes his anxiety go haywire the next day, so he always gets to wake up next to him. Always. 

He likes cuddling with Louis, and he likes making dinner with him, and he likes having sex with him, in their bed. He likes that things are theirs now. The way he touches Louis is easy, the way he accepts touches from Louis is easy. There's harder bits like communicating and maneuvering dates around Harry's anxiety, but when the other parts are so fucking easy and feel so good, Harry is more than willing to accept the tougher ones. 

This time, they think they got it right.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> comment if you feel like it :D


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